


To Be Free

by FMB



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Master/Slave, Slavery, Teenagers, Tevinter Imperium, tevinter anders au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-08-27 16:19:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 111,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8408401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FMB/pseuds/FMB
Summary: Anders, a talented mage in the Tevinter Imperium, was gifted with many things throughout his childhood.What happens when the most cherished mage in Tevinter runs away from home with an overly devoted slave running after him?





	1. When He Was Born

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly just to see how well-received a fic like this might be. I may or may not continue it, but as always, comments, kudos, and the like are well appreciated.

“One day, you will be the one true ruler of the whole Imperium, my child. That I promise you.” Danarius whispered into his son's ear with a smile, bouncing the precious infant in his arms as he slept. Even as a newborn, Danarius could feel his magical potential swelling within him. He knew mixing his own talents with that of that Anderfel bitch would create the best potential candidate for what he and his close colleagues had planned. He would raise the boy well, spoil the little prince, let him not want for anything, but get anything he'd want. He'd be a lavished young man, trained in the art of magic by the best and the brightest. His power will surpass even Danarius, he was certain.

He just had to be patient, now. Allow the child to grow, see the kind of man he would become. Everything else, Danarius had done his best to set the pieces into place. The only thing he still had yet to find was the perfect weapon for this future God.

“One day, Anders, you will be a vessel for greatness.”

\--------

His magic manifested far sooner than most. An infant's crying tantrum turned into a crib set on fire. A dislike for a certain food turned into the plates and bowls being thrown across the room and shattering on the ground. His fear of their stone-faced nanny ended up in a frozen corpse that Danarius had to rush to dispose of. Anders was a hard boy to please, but at the end of the day, Danarius felt his pride swell at the chaos his child was able to create. If he was this powerful now, he would be tenfold as strong when he reached maturity, that Danarius was certain.

And while Anders grew from infant to toddler to child, Danarius was busy putting together what he had taken to call “The Games.” It was a marathon of sorts, a series of trials and tests that would weed out the weak and incapable. At the end of this challenge would stand one lone victor, the last living contestant, and he or she would be not only the strongest in muscle, but the most intelligent, the most loyal, and more importantly, the most desperate. They would be designated as Ander's personal slave, created to be his own living weapon, and in order to keep such a powerful creature in check, they needed to be wholly devoted to their master.

And so Danarius had begun the propaganda as well. He was already practically the highest regarded man in the Imperium, just below the Divine and the Archon, but he would make Anders seem like the very Prince of Tevinter. He brought toddler Anders with him to meetings with the other Magisters, flaunted him in public whenever he went out, and even threw parties in his name, gathering more followers for his precious boy. Anders soon grew into a young child of four, and he was already relishing the attention he earned every time he stepped outside. Luckily for Danarius, when Anders began to develop a personality, it was a sociable, kind and bright one. He was a child who never stopped smiling, who laughed at the smallest joys and forgave the worst grievances, even if it were from a slave. He never really punished his slaves or guards for doing anything wrong, but Danarius was there to step in when he needed to. If a slave became too much of an issue, Anders never mentioned their sudden disappearance, nor did he seem to be bothered by it.

The populace was practically in love with his bright little boy, and Danarius couldn't wish for anything more. Especially when the Archon himself contacted Danarius, asking to take Anders on as his apprentice once he reached his magical maturity—which was typically around the age of twenty-five. Danarius couldn't respond any sooner, sealing the deal and promising him his son... so long as the Archon would back him in his current research. After a few more letters passed back and forth and a brief summary on Danarius' theory along a quick outline on how he would prove the theory, the Archon was suddenly backing him, providing him with adequate funding where he needed it. Other Magisters assisted him with The Games, and when Anders turned eight, they held their first one. They offered the winner gold, as Danarius only needed to obtain more data on how The Games worked out. He wanted to make the challenges grueling, nearly impossible, and it wouldn't meet his standards on the first try.

He brought Anders with him to the first Games. He also allowed another Magister to 'lead' The Games so that Danarius could obtain the best information with the least distractions. Anders sat at the edge of his seat the entire time, jeering with the crowd at the action and the bloodshed, applauding when each victor came out on top, and laughing when the bodies were dragged away. Danarius took dutiful notes, but he would flash his son a smile and a laugh whenever Anders looked his way. The excitement in those bright blue eyes was a reward in itself, and Danarius couldn't wait to hold The Games in Anders' name.

When the Champion had won and been rewarded, the crowd gave a loud round of applause. Slowly, they began to disperse, and Danarius was satisfied with his notes. He began to stand and Anders followed suit, and together they walked through the rows of seats hand in hand. The Champion was still in the arena, shaking the hand of the Magister and accepting his reward of fifty sovereigns. Anders began to look around, and Danarius smirked down at him. He tucked his notes away in his robes and asked him gently, “What are you looking for, my child?”

“Where are the others?” Anders asked him, keeping a hold of Danarius' hand, “They were all so amazing! I was wanting to get an autograph. Can I, Daddy?”

Danarius laughed, genuinely surprised by the question, and he shook his head before he explained, “My boy, this is no Orlesian play. Those were real men and women down there in the arena today, fighting one another with real swords and arrows.”

Anders' brow furrowed, and he looked up at Danarius with a wary smile in place, “So they are... not actors?”

Danarius shook his head no, still smirking, “No, Anders. They are dead.”

And for the first time in all of Anders' short life, Danarius saw him frown.

\-----

Anders was ten when Danarius realized there was a problem. Anders had been given lessons daily for a few years now, and slowly the tardiness and absences grew. Soon enough, Danarius was confronted by Anders' tutor personally and told that Anders had not shown to his lesson for a full week.

Danarius was embarrassed and enraged. He descended upon Anders' bedroom to confront the child, but when he opened the door, he found the room empty and the window wide open. A long, thick vine had grown from the windowsill to the ground, and Danarius flushed in rage... and a bit of amusement. So the boy was entering his rebellious age. So be it, Danarius would be prepared. If he was going to skip out on classes, he was going to _earn_ it.

He waited for Anders to return to his bedroom, entering it the same way he exited, and he scolded him harshly. Anders went back to lessons for a few more days, and then the attempts resumed. Danarius was ready for him, though, and he laid a few hexes and magical traps where he believed Anders to tread.

The next brisk, sunny morning began with an explosion and a cry, and Danarius soon found his arms full of a sobbing Anders, nursing his wounded pride. He had been covered in hot wax and goose feathers—nothing that could hurt him, but surely enough to humiliate. Danarius coddled and comforted, but he wouldn't let it end there. He needed Anders to realize that his place was at his lessons, and that the more he learned, the better and stronger he would become.

He continued to hex the space around Anders' windows and any other odd escape routes he may be tempted to take, until Anders learned that there was no point in escaping unless he learned how to combat such defenses. He attended lessons, learned more about magic, and when the challenge had been met and Anders began sneaking out again, Danarius upped the danger and complexity. They did this silent dance for two and a half years before Anders began to merely do it for the joy of knowing that he could, and he ceased trying to escape altogether. Danarius still laid his traps and his hexes, letting Anders know that those challenges were there when he needed them to be. He would keep his son's mind active, let him see how real these lessons could be if he knew how to apply them. He showed him this way that there was nothing Anders couldn't achieve if he just put his mind to it and spent a little time learning his way around it. He would see his son become Archon.

But even though Anders attended his classes and learned more and more daily, Danarius began to notice his now teen-aged son beginning to leave the house at night. His guards and slaves would spot the boy running across the garden and slipping through the gates, and they reported their findings to their master as any loyal servant should do. Danarius allowed him to explore for some time, but he told his stealthiest spies to keep an eye on him, and his most loyal guards to wheedle out any information they could as they protected him.

A month later, the truth came to light. The spies managed to track Anders down to a hole-in-the-wall building across the city, and the slaves told Danarius stories Anders shared with them of healing the poor and feeding the starved. They spoke of it in awe, but the more Danarius heard, the more incensed he became. He wouldn't have his son giving hand-outs to those who didn't deserve it. He heard he hadn't even been taking coin for the hours spent working in the crude excuse for a clinic. And who was even teaching him Creationism? Surely his tutors didn't think Anders would _need_ to heal himself or anyone else when he was Archon, and would have an entire arsenal of healers and slaves and doctors to aid him. All he needed to know was the magic that would let him crush his enemies, all he needed to be was strong and powerful. For him to fall into healing, though it was an admirable career, it was not what Danarius thought an Altus of Ander's social standing was destined to do.

He put an end to the issue discretely. Told Anders he had made a rather formidable enemy, allowing him to station guards and servants in and around his room, switching out at eight hour intervals. He would sleep, eat, and study under the many watchful eyes of his men, and they would stop him from stepping even a toe outside of the gardens. He saw Anders' gloom far before his slaves reported it to him, but he knew it was for the boy's own good. Leave it to the foolish child to think he was helping people, only to catch the plague himself and perish before Danarius could even try to help him.

But alas, gloom turned to depression, and again Anders refused to attend classes. This time, however, he merely laid in his bed and stared out the window, longing to leave the mansion and to fulfill what he thought was his purpose. Danarius visited him often during this time, trying to convince his boy that there was so much more to life than pitying the unworthy and wasting his energy on them, but the more he spoke, the more upset Anders would become.

Eventually, Danarius decided it would be best to just... tell him.

He sat on the bed beside his son, their backs facing each other, and Danarius said in a quiet voice, “Anders... there is so much that I have done for you that you aren't even aware of.”

“Guilt tripping,” Anders responded lazily, voice muffled by his pillow, “That's new.”

Danarius sighed and rubbed a hand against his eyes, then his temples, and finally his cheek. He stared down at the floor, considering how to continue, to move on from this, “I arranged for your tutor for your own good. I want to see you become a strong mage, Anders. I want to see you become stronger than me. I want you to be better than the Magisters, better than all of Tevinter... better than the Archon.”

Anders stayed silent, but Danarius felt him shift, rolling onto his back far enough to look at his father. Danarius didn't look back at him, he merely kept his eyes to the ground and his shoulders hunched. He continued to say, “He has shown a great interest in you, Anders. Ever since you were a boy, in fact. He was excited to take you under his wing when you matured, but...”

“But...?” Anders whispered, hope and curiosity and fear in his voice all at once. Danarius turned his head away a bit more to hide his smirk.

“But your recent marks have him doubting you. He thinks you are lazy, that you will aim to be nothing but another Altus, spoiled rotten and too afraid to achieve something _more_. I convinced him to wait on his final decision, give it another year, told him you were just in a rut or in a mood, but if you continue on like this... Well, you will never receive his blessing.”

Anders sat up now, his eyes practically burning into Danarius' back, and he whispered to his father, “The Archon wants... me? I don't believe you.”

“What isn't there to believe?” Danarius chuckled out, shaking his head slowly and still not meeting Anders' eye, “You showed great potential in your budding years. Your magic is already so strong, Anders. You only need to hone your skills, learn as many spells and master as many classes as you can. You already have Elementals under your belt! You are meant for so much more than what you think you are, Anders.”

Finally, Danarius turned to look at his son, young and naive and curious about the world. He could see his own teen aged self in Anders, bright eyed and pure, and he would not dare crush it. But he needed Anders back on the right path.

In a low, warning voice, Danarius told Anders while staring him straight in the eye, “And your activities outside of this mansion has not been as secretive as you thought.” Anders' head dropped down immediately, shame and anger forming tears in his eyes, “Wherever have you learned to heal?”

Anders' eyes flickered, tears falling onto his blankets, but he refused to answer. Danarius set his jaw and sat up straighter, looking down at his crying son with a scowl.

“Fine. If you will not tell me, I will have to find out for myself. Not even a healer can be immune to the temptations of blood magic, I'm certain.”

“No!” Anders suddenly cried, his head bolting up and his blue eyes sparkling in fear, tears rolling down his cheeks now, “Please, Dad, I won't do it anymore! I swear, j-just leave him alone!”

“Him? Who is it, then, Anders? You must tell me!” Danarius demanded. He loved his son, he truly did, but he wouldn't trust him as blindly as this. Anders still refused to give a name, instead shaking his head, but when Danarius scoffed and stood, Anders sobbed louder and reached out to cling to his robes.

“Just promise me you won't hurt him! Please, he has been nothing but kind to me!” Anders begged, and Danarius stared down at the pitiful image of his son for a long moment before things began to click.

“A crush, is it? You merely learned from this man because you were infatuated, weren't you?” Danarius guessed, and by the way Anders sobbed more and clung tighter to him, he knew it to be true. He smacked Ander's hands away, and Anders crumpled to his bed as if he had struck him across the cheek. His shoulders were shaking and his sobs were loud and heavy, but Danarius wouldn't let the grief touch him.

“Tell me what his name is. I will not harm him.” Danarius promised in a stern tone, and Anders slowly peered up at him again, meeting his eyes and trying to determine if he was telling the truth.

When Anders believed he was, he whispered in a shaking breath, “K-Karl... Karl Thekla... He is a spirit healer, Dad, and a talented one at that! He is so kind and so giving, I.... I couldn't help myself! I needed to get to know him, and he offered to teach me his magic and I.... I...”

Danarius scoffed again, a wry, cold smirk stretching on his face, and he muttered in a dark voice, “Karl Thekla... You will never see him again, Anders. Do you understand me?”

“I do, Father,” Anders whimpered, bowing his head again and letting more tears fall, his entire being screaming defeat.

“And this spirit healing you have learned... I want to see no more of it. You are to be learning only what I deem useful. Do you understand?” Danarius continued, laying down strict rules for his foolish son to follow.

Anders nodded weakly, sobbing out a final, “I do...” and Danarius was finally satisfied. The man ran his fingers through Anders' hair, then brought his fingers under his chin to lift his head and look him in the eye. “I love you, Anders,” He told him, though his son continued to cry, “I do this only for your benefit.”

Anders sniffled, his eyes red and puffy and the tears beginning to dry salty trails along his cheeks, but he stiffly nodded and mumbled, “I know.... I love you too, Dad.”

“You will return to class tomorrow and you will think no more of this Karl Thekla. I want to see you completely enveloped in your studies, my boy.” Danarius told him, and Anders nodded again, his eyes glued to his sheets, tired of looking up at Danarius.

They both kept their word. Danarius kept Karl Thekla away from Anders, and Anders resumed his classes dutifully. Danarius didn't touch a hair on Karl's head, and Anders put away his spirit healing.

And how Karl ended up in that year's Games, Danarius claimed he didn't know. Anders sat there, pale and rigid, even long after Karl had been slain and his corpse carried out of the arena. That night he cried, and Danarius did nothing to comfort him. It was Anders' fault for falling for this man. It would be up to Anders to get himself out of it.

The next day, Anders went to his lessons with no complaint, and no word of the night before. Danarius was told by his tutor that he had been especially attentive that day, and Danarius was more than pleased.

The Games were almost complete, now. Next year, Danarius told himself. That was when the final pawn would be set in place. He would arrange for The Games to run on Anders' birthday, and finally Danarius would be the one to lead them.

When the year began, he immediately announced the prize. The winner is to be Ander's personal body guard, rewarded with a power no other could achieve on their own and worth twice Danarius' weight in gold. Anders himself seemed a little miffed at being part of the prize, but he played the part in public quite well, telling anyone who asked him that he would be swooning for whoever won his hand. He acted as if he were being married to the victor, and that did nothing but increase every man and woman's desire to win. Not because they were solely infatuated with Anders—though there was a handful of obsessed fans—but because being with Anders meant being in Danarius' estate. And they equated that with being in his family.

It was simply mass confusion, a misunderstanding at best, but Danarius nor Anders did anything to remedy it. Danarius wanted to draw in as many contestants as possible, to really diversify the potential Champion. In fact, he even decided to allow slaves and servants to enter in this years' Games, though he often voiced his belief that none of them would even be a match for the Imperium's greatest warriors. Anders kept his own opinions to himself.

They ended up gathering so many contestants that the Games was set to take nearly a full week, and Danarius and the other magisters knew they would have to really put everything into this one. They arranged for the space around the arena to be cleared so vendors and merchants could set up wares. They created a tight schedule to fit in every challenge and challenger. They decided to allow time for recuperation as well, and set up a neighborhood of tents for the contestants that traveled from afar to rest in. It was all so much bigger than any other Game had been, and Danarius was thrilled to find that even Anders seemed excited by the prospect of them.

When the first day of the Games came, Anders and Danarius sat in the elevated booth, a slave for each standing behind them and a guard watching the door. They had a few more guards planted in the crowds as well, armed with bows and arrows, but Anders thought it was overkill. The contestants for the Games slowly began to fill the arena, having to stand shoulder to shoulder in order for them all to fit. As they filled the space, Danarius leaned towards Anders and said to him, “Look upon these desperate people, my boy. See how they rush to their impending deaths in order to serve you and only you. Some are free men who are looking to be under your boot. Doesn't it feel amazing to have such power?”

Anders glanced at his grinning father, then looked down at the crowds before he took in a deep breath, “I just hope the victor doesn't actually insist on me marrying them.”

Danarius barked out a laugh, clapping his hand down on his knee twice before he sighed and stood, bringing the chatter in the crowds to an end. He lifted his arms and called out with a booming voice, amplified by magic, “Citizens of the Imperium! This week, we have quite a show set up for you! You are all familiar with the battle and bloodshed of the Games, you are all fans of watching these men and women slaughter one another in the hopes of achieving the grand prize,” He gestured vaguely at Anders, who lifted a hand for a wave, “But this year's Games will be one you will never forget! Our victor, whosoever he or she may be, will have the honor to not only be at young Anders' side, but will be rewarded with a weapon so powerful, so unheard of, that they will become the strongest in all of Thedas! In all of the world!”

The contestants and the crowds cheered. Anders' smile grew tighter, but he clapped along.

“But first, you must all prove yourselves! Not only will you need to be the strongest, but you will need to be the fastest, the most cunning, and especially durable. These Games will allow for you all to rest and recuperate, but we will make up for that in sheer difficulty and danger in each challenge. If you wish to turn back now, flee, but be warned that you will never be allowed within the Games again!”

The contestants looked at one another, a few of them shaking, a few others standing rigid. Some shuffled about, considering leaving, but none of them actually did. They all stood their ground, though some more reluctantly than others. Anders felt pained for them. Why did they subject themselves to this mayhem and chaos just to be his slave? Why was his father doing this for him? He didn't really understand it all, but he had no right to speak against it. He leaned further back in his seat, brow furrowed.

“Then you all shall participate! Fantastic,” Danarius chuckled, clasping his hands together, “Then we shall let the games begin!”

The first part of the Games was, as best described, battle royale. The gates to leave the arena were shut and locked, and the contestants were ordered to fight one another for five minutes. This was to immediately weed out the incapable, or anyone who was not quick enough on their feet and good enough with their fists. Danarius sat in his chair and watched as the bloodshed ensued, and Anders sighed and leaned his chin on his fist, watching as well.

And it was a good two minutes in when Anders first spotted the boy. No, the young man. He must have been a year or two older than Anders was currently, though it was often hard to tell with elves. He had dark, roughened skin, shiny black hair and vibrant green eyes, almost bright enough for Anders to see clearly all the way on his perch in the booth. His back straightened and he leaned forward, and Danarius caught on to the slight movements. An amused smirk played on his face before he asked his son, “See someone you like?”

“I do,” Anders admitted, leaning forward a bit more now that it was obvious. He was short, but that was a given since he was one of the few elves in the mass of humans, but he was agile. Anders gasped when he managed to trip one of the taller men with a swift kick to their shins and climb atop them, slamming his fists into their face. When that didn't give as quickly as he wanted it to, he clamped his hands on either side of his head, drew it up, then slammed it back down. A minor cheer erupted from the nearby crowd. It seemed like it wasn't only Anders who was watching him closely.

“Well? Which one is it?” Danarius egged on, grinning as he scanned the fighting contestants.

“That one there. He is strangling that woman,” Anders pointed out, and Danarius' eyes slowly zoned in on the elf. His grin seemed to falter at the sight of what was obviously a slave, if not a low-class servant, and he looked back at Anders with a disapproving scowl.

“He wouldn't last.” Danarius huffed, leaning back in his seat, “You really ought to stop rooting for whoever you find prettiest.”

“I—what?” Anders looked back at his father, frowning, “Well, he is pretty, but look at him! He's facing that giant of a man all by himself! And I daresay he's winning.”

Danarius scoffed and tossed his head back, saying coldly, “He will not make it to the end. That I can assure you.”

“You're certain?” Anders frowned, looking at his cocksure father as he nodded, “Certain enough to bet on it?”

Danarius' eyes sparkled at the challenge, but then he was smirking and he asked him, “And what, pray tell, would you have us bet?”

“If the elf wins, he is granted an extra boon. Allow him any one thing he will ask for, be it his freedom, a ticket out of the Imperium, or gold. You will answer to his one plea without any issue.” Anders demanded, and Danarius rose a curious brow before he nodded.

“And what if he does not win? What will you give me?” Danarius asked, eyes narrowing as Anders considered it.

“You are my father. You have everything from me,” Anders muttered sullenly, his brows furrowing when he could think of nothing to give. Danarius chuckled at that, nodding a little at the truth of it, but he knew better.

“If the elf dies, you will learn the art of blood magic. No complaints, no backing out.” Danarius offered, and Anders' frown turned into a look of sheer horror.

“You wish to turn me into a maleficar?” Anders questioned in a hushed voice, and Danarius smirked at him.

“I wish to make you the strongest mage in the Imperium. To make you the most feared. You cannot fight maleficarum without being a maleficar.” Danarius spoke wisely, and before Anders could say any more on the subject, the bell signaling the end of the five minutes began to ring. Danarius turned to look at the subjects left, pleased to see a hefty portion of them left, though many were wounded already, and he slowly stood.

His eyes caught the gaze of that elf, bearing a few scratches and tears, but otherwise untouched. His smile faltered again, but he didn't allow himself to worry over it.

“Now that the incapable and incompetent are gone, we shall begin our first trial!”

The rest of the day was spent watching the contestants completing the first challenge, consisting of a dangerous maze meant to test their intelligence, filled with vicious animals such as vipers, tigers, and even a hulking bear. They had all been driven mad by poison, and the bear was already three kills in when the elf ended up in its path. Anders was biting on the bottom of his lip as he ran from the charging bear, and Danarius began to chuckle, especially when the creature swiped at him and caught him in the middle of his back. Anders' eyes widened and he stood, leaning forward to get a better view as the bear began crawling on top of the collapsed elf, teeth glinting in the sunlight and growl echoing through the arena.

“No!” Anders whimpered, clinging to the rail of the booth, “Get up! Get up, you stupid elf!”

The bear was practically blanketing the elf's body by now, its hulking form hiding him from the view of Anders and the rest of the spectators. Danarius laughed again and shook his head, saying a simple, “He is dead, Anders, as I said he would be.”

Anders slowly shook his head, still clinging to the railing. The bear was merely standing there, he soon realized. It wasn't chewing or scratching, it actually looked like it was sniffing. Perhaps the elf had died when he was struck by its claws, and now the bear had lost interest? Slowly, the bear stepped away from the elf, who had curled up into a fetal position and was bleeding heavily from his back. His tunic had been torn, pieces of it scattered on the ground. The bear turned the corner, catching scent of another nearby contestant, and it resumed its hunt.

Once gone, one of the mages tasked with cleaning out the bodies as they died crept into the maze using a hidden passageway within the walls. They looked both ways before they fully stepped out of their hidden nook, and he approached the curled up elf to remove him from the arena. Once his hand was on the elf's arm, however, the elf was darting back up to his feet, fist drawn back and a deranged look in his eye. The mage cried out when he was struck, but the crowds were cheering and howling for the elf once more. Anders shouted in glee just as well, clapping loudly for the elf who had reluctantly let the mage go and watched him disappear back into the wall. The elf staggered for a moment, the strike to his back obviously hindering him now, but he moved on through the maze, determined to reach the end of it where three humans had already been waiting. Luckily, he only ran into the vipers on the way to the end, and he evaded them with ease.

When he made it to the end, which was a safe room for the contestants to rest in until the others either perished or succeeded, the elf collapsed into a nearby bench, his back still bleeding. One of the women stepped forward and spoke to him, but the elf waved her away and merely curled up on himself, tugging off the rest of his tunic and wrapping it around his torso to try and stop the bleeding. He flopped back onto the bench and sighed, running his hands through his hair and closing his eyes, awaiting the next challenge. Anders dropped back in his chair and shot his father a huge grin, one the man couldn't return with anything but a scowl.

“He got lucky,” Danarius muttered, and Anders laughed in disbelief.

“He's going to win.” he told him, absolutely certain.

When the sun fell below the horizon, the games were called for a pause. Danarius wanted to watch in the best light possible, so he allowed the remaining one hundred and twenty contestants to go to their tents, each taking a free meal provided by the magistrate. Danarius allowed Anders to run off to the rest of the festival, telling him to enjoy himself in the games set up for the citizens or to shop around in the stalls surrounding the arena. Anders was left to his own free reign and he used the chance to slip away from his guards and to blend in with the crowd. He hid himself behind a stall until he was sure he was alone, and then scurried off to the tents.

It had been a close call that first day, and Anders wasn't thrilled at the idea of becoming a maleficar, so he decided he'd take a page from his father's book and... better his odds a little. It took a little bit of slinking around and a few awkward peeks into tents before he found the elf, curled up on his side and shaking inside his tent. Anders swiftly squeezed in, startling the poor thing into sitting up, which only made him wince in pain.

“Hush! It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you,” Anders said to him in a whisper, and he summoned a ball of mage light so they could see each other better in the dark tent. The elf was gorgeous up close, his dark skin with a olive undertone, his green eyes glittering in the dim light, and his jet black hair looked so silky Anders wanted to run his fingers through it. The elf looked over him twice before confusion filled his eyes, and he scooted back a bit more.

“You're the Magister's boy we're fighting for,” He said, and his voice was surprisingly deep, almost luxurious to listen to. Anders smiled wide at him, already feeling his weak heart falling for him.

“Yes, but that isn't important,” Anders said with a grin, and he scooted closer to the elf, “Show me your back.”

“Why?” He questioned immediately, defensive and surprisingly unwilling, if he truly was a slave. Anders refrained from rolling his eyes at him and merely pushed and shoved until he got a good view of the deep gashes on his back.

“I can't heal them completely or else my father will suspect foul play, but the least I can do is this,” Anders told him, allowing the healing magic to swell within him as Karl had taught him to do. He rubbed his fingertips against the elf's skin just beside where it was torn, soothing the pain and earning a relieved gasp. The wounds closed up so they wouldn't tear open so easily, but the red lines were still visible and inflamed. Anders hated that he couldn't just heal them completely, unhappy to know that they would merely scar, but by the looks of the whip marks on the elf's back, it wouldn't be anything new.

When the elf turned back to face him, he immediately asked, “Why are you doing this? Surely you wouldn't want to be served by an elf who couldn't last with a wound such as that...”

“It's not about that,” Anders sighed, shaking his head, “Look, I really want you to win. I saw you down there, fighting for your life and outsmarting that bear. I saw you punch the mage in the face—which, by the way, was absolutely hilarious. I don't really want some random beefy guard to hound me in my sleep. I want a friend.” Anders reached out and touched the elf's hand, smiling at him, “I took one look at you and knew you would be that kind of person. Surely you wouldn't turn down my help?”

“If the Game Master finds out--” He began to say, but Anders hushed him with a shake of his head and an intimate touch to his lips.

“He won't. I promise. Just... don't die, okay? Seriously, I can't afford your death right now,” Anders sighed, his fingers skirting along the slave's jaw, brushing back his hair.

The elf looked confused and a little conflicted, his eyes trying to follow Anders' hand, but he gave the mage a brief nod in answer, mumbling under his breath, “Then... I won't die.”

“Good. I'll return tomorrow night to heal you up again. I'm certain you can win the Games, elf. Just promise me you'll be more than my slave, okay?” Anders begged, and when he was met with nothing more than sheer confusion, Anders shook his head and said, “Well, we'll have more time to talk once you're mine. Win the Games. Don't die.”

“Yes,” the elf replied, and Anders slipped out of the tent without another word.

A few hours past sunrise on the next day, the Games resumed. The contestants filled the arena once again, able to stand more comfortably now that there were less present. They all were waving to the applauding crowd, even the elf lifted a hand to appease them. Anders grinned to himself, hiding it beneath his hand, but he felt nervous deep down. Already the elf showed promise. Anders was almost certain that if simply healed him at night when he needed it, the elf would come out triumphant.

Anders glanced towards Danarius, seeing he had a bitter look on his face, but no hint of considering foul play on Anders' part. It was only reasonable, it usually took Danarius a week or two to catch on to the latest of Anders' schemes.

As the contest resumed, Anders settled back in his seat. They were testing for magical resistance and agility. A line of mages and a single magister stood in a row at the front of the arena, throwing spells and hexes at the flailing contestants. It was a little abhorrent, in Anders' opinion. Throwing fireballs and cones of cold in the middle of the arena was like electrocuting a barrel of fish. They had nowhere to run and no means of protecting themselves. More men and women fell, and Anders could hear Danarius grumble under his breath about too many people perishing at once. Anders didn't know why, a week long game seemed too excessive. Yet as he looked out at the spectators, he realized they wouldn't be getting bored of the bloodshed any time soon.

Turning his attention back to the elf, Anders watched as he narrowly dodged an incoming fireball, only to leap away from a strike of lightning. As he ran out of reach of a burst of ice, he shoved a young woman into a hex, setting off the trap and causing the floor within the circle to set ablaze. Her screams were loud, but the crowd's cheer was louder. Anders grimaced and turned away. He wanted the elf to win, mostly for his own benefit, but he didn't have to like it.

He was inclined to turn back around when he heard his father laughing, and when he looked down into the arena, he found the elf being grabbed around the shoulders by a human. The man was using the elf as a shield, cowering from a line of fireballs headed their way. Anders heart jumped into his throat and he moved to stand from his seat to watch closer, but the elf was quick. Using all of his strength and momentum he could muster, he threw his weight down and flipped the human over his back, reversing their roles and shielding himself from the direct blast of fire instead.

The elf was small, but even Anders could see the flames reaching around the meat-shield he garnered. When the burned carcass was finally dropped, the damage became apparent, and the elf hopped from foot to foot as the skin on his calves and feet bubbled and burned. Tears began to stream down his cheeks, and Anders clenched his cheeks, feeling sympathy pain radiate through him.

“He is injured,” Danarius observed eagerly, “The magister will finish him.”

And the magister definitely aimed to, calling forth one final, grandiose ball of flame just above his hands. He was using the last of his mana, Anders realized. The rest of the mages seemed drained already. This would be the end of it.

The elf had doubled over in pain, uselessly fanning at his legs to try and cool the burning skin, but the crackling of flame caught his attention. The magister's gaze settled on him, and the elf seemed to realize he was the last target. He attempted to run at first, but he collapsed after the second step, crying out in the pain that overwhelmed him. The fireball was thrown, aiming straight for the collapsed slave. Anders cried out desperately, and those teary eyes jumped to him instead of his impending doom.

Danarius was laughing. The elf could hear it easily, even all the way down in the arena as he was. As he gazed at Anders, he was struck by just how fearful he was, as if Anders' life was on the line just as much as his. The elf considered it, considered his pale face, wide eyes, and rigid form. He could easily mistake Anders as the one with a fireball on his back, and seeing this man who they were literally fighting to serve look so utterly distraught... well, he was a good slave, and he promised his future master he wouldn't die.

With that in mind, the elf realized the fireball had gotten too close. The heat was beginning to burn, and he needed to get out of its way. Running was no longer an option, but his hands definitely were. He bit down on his tongue and forced himself through the pain in his calves long enough to propel himself into the air, balancing himself gracefully on his hands. With incredible balance and speed, the elf hand-walked himself out of the fireball's path, though the stray flames and the way it burst upon hitting the floor was enough to lick at his stomach and chest, singing his tunic black and turning his dark skin an angry red. He collapsed onto his back once he was safe, but he curled up into the fetal position and groaned in pain anyways. Everything was burning and he didn't think he'd be able to stand. It was only distantly that he heard the spectators shouting their approval for his skill, and then a hand was on him, hoisting him up and helping him stand.

Looking over at who it was, the elf saw another competitor, holding him up and keeping him there. The human woman shared a small smile with him, but said nothing.

Back in the stands, Anders turn to his father with a grin and declared, “He's the one. I know he is.”

“Impossible. He merely got lucky,” Danarius sniffed, taking the elf's survival as a personal affront. Anders couldn't help the chuckle that bubbled out of him. Luck had nothing to do with it, but if it was what Danarius would fool himself with, then it would also be luck that the elf would heal indescribably fast tonight.

Danarius decided to cut short the games for that day in an attempt to keep them from ending prematurely. The contestants were sent back to their tents, and once again Anders was allowed freedom to enjoy the festivities around the arena. He took a different path to evade his guards this time, flirting with a girl and bringing her away to scare away any lingering spies. Once alone and hidden, he easily knocked her out with a mind blast and slunk away, creeping into the contestant's quarters once more. He found the elf much easier than the night before, glad he hadn't moved tents.

When he opened the flaps to the tent, the smell of still burning flesh caught him off guard. He gagged at first, but climbed into the tent the rest of the way, careful not to jostle the pained elf as he lay in the center, trembling.

“You're making this hard on me, you know.” Anders tutted, getting comfortable in the cramped space and lifting his hands, calling upon his healing magic and going first for his calves. The elf cried out in relief, his entire body shuddering as the burn dulled and the skin mended enough to numb the nerves, but not enough to rid him of the red skin and scars. Anders moved to work on his chest next, but the elf caught his wrist in a hand, his eyes wide as they stared at him.

“Why?” He asked hoarsely. Anders rose a brow at him, waiting for him to elaborate. “Why heal me? Have I not been proven unworthy to you? I cannot go on without your aid.”

Anders rolled his eyes and resumed healing him, forcing the elf back down so he could get to his chest easier. As he worked, he considered the answer, and finally mustered up a meek, “You are strong and agile and... pretty.”

The elf seemed to stiffen at that, and when the pain was no longer an issue, he pushed himself upright so he could look Anders in the eye, something else a slave shouldn't have been able to do.

“And that.” Anders said, smirking. The elf blinked, his brows furrowed, then he seemed to catch himself and he averted his gaze, but Anders only clicked his tongue and ran his fingers beneath his chin, urging him to make eye contact once more.

“I am no bed slave,” The elf said almost shyly, as if worried that this truth would cause him punishment, “I have not been trained to--”

“I wouldn't want you for that.” Anders cut him off, scooting a little closer. The elf glanced down at where the mage's hands rested on the ground right beside his hip, then back up at his face, obviously not believing him.

“You called me pretty.” He pointed out, his tone bitter, and Anders laughed delightedly.

Shaking his head, Anders allowed silence to fill the air before he admitted, “You are unlike any slave I've met in Tevinter. You are practically thrumming with a challenge, even to a mage. I like that. I need that. If I am to have a bodyguard, it will be a man who will not only protect me from assassins but from my father as well.”

“The Magister?” The elf questioned, surprised, “He would not dare hurt you. You are like a prince to him—to all of us.” The words were genuine, even coming from such a slave. They made Anders feel ill inside.

“He wishes to turn me into a maleficar. If you do not win, I will be forced to perform blood magic. I'm not sure if you can tell, but I prefer to give people life, not take it away.” Anders explained, ducking his head a little. The elf continued to stare at him, not saying a word about it. Perhaps he had been trained not to speak of things such as this, especially around a mage. Perhaps he just didn't know what to say. Anders wasn't sure, but he nervously filled the silence, “You are healed. Don't die, okay? And stop putting yourself in danger like that, too. I can only do so much before my father catches on.”

The elf ducked his head this time, murmuring a quiet, “Yes, Master,” before Anders could even urge him to look back up. Anders shifted uncomfortably, but he nodded to himself, then slipped out from the tent.

It was only on his way back to the estate that he realized he forgot yet again to ask for the elf's name.

The next day was another maze, though this time, whoever reached the flag in the center first would be rewarded a night with Danarius and Anders. A good meal, a bath, and a few healers at the winner's disposal, it would all do well to boost the winner's chance of survival. The race began with a shot of electricity, both signaling the start of the race and pointing the contestants to where the flag was. The elf, who was tucked into the far corner—certainly Danarius' doing—shot out from his nook and ran through the halls. He barely stopped to confront other players, he merely ran forth and sought out the flag.

Anders watched with a frown. It wasn't that he didn't want the elf to win, but he wasn't entirely sure if he wanted him to get there first. Sure, Anders would be indisposed for the night, unable to heal him should he come across any injuries, but if Danarius got a closer look at the elf, he might notice Anders' hand in keeping the elf healthy. Already, Anders saw Danarius beginning to suspect something, what with the way the elf was sprinting through the maze on feet that had been barbecued the day before.

“He is a resilient little thing, isn't he?” Danarius wondered aloud, and Anders struggled to keep his face neutral.

“Starting to believe me?” Anders asked Danarius instead, hoping a bit of light banter would be enough to distract him. Danarius hummed and looked Anders' way, then gazed back down at the arena, watching as the elf literally vaulted over another contestant and continued to run. Anders felt a bead of sweat run down his neck.

“Well, if he gets there first, I may not have to worry any longer about it.” Danarius mumbled, causing Anders to look at him in confusion before he gazed back down at the flag. It was flickering in the wind, making the sigil on the cloth hard to see, but with a bit of squinting and concentration, Anders put two and two together.

“You hexed the flag?” Anders all but shouted, his eyes going wide, “But I thought the first to get it--”

“Would spend a night with us, should he survive the agonizing pain that hex will dispel on him.” Danarius smirked, looking over at Anders, “And if he dies, then that's one less guest to entertain, isn't it?”

Anders watched in fear as the elf made it to the flag before the other contestants. His heart was pounding, and he wanted to scream at his father. This was cheating! Surely it had to be! He watched as he elf drew closer to the flag, his heart racing, and a shout rose in the back of his throat to warn him of the danger.

But then the elf paused, his hand outstretched, fingers just about to graze the metal pole.

Danarius’ cocky smile slipped as the elf then circled the flag, considering it, then finally ignoring it and looking around the small, circular clearing instead. “What is he doing?” Danarius questioned, but Anders couldn’t even think of answering, just as lost himself. They were forced to sit and wait impatiently as the elf kicked about dirt and wandered the walls of the maze.

Finally, the elf seemed to find something, and with a large smile on his face, he picked up a forked stick. He wandered back to the flag, hopping back up on the dais it had been placed upon, and with the stick he picked he flag up, never setting off the hex as he did so.

“No…” Danarius murmured in disbelief, leaning forward in his seat. Another contestant rounded the corner, scowling when they saw the elf with the flag. They ran forward to try and tackle it from him, as if that would make a difference, but the elf didn’t seem up for the fight. He glanced at the flag, then at the opponent, and with a deft swing, he threw the flag at him.

In seconds, the flag burst into flames, catching the poor man on fire as well. The crowd cheered, Anders whooped in delight, and Danarius cried out in despair, “No! How did he--?”

“Because he is clever, father!” Anders grinned, looking at the enraged man.

“He is an elf!” Danarius countered as if that made a difference. Anders waved him off with a laugh, and he watched as the elf picked the still burning flag back up with the stick and used it to ward off and defeat other contestants. The stick soon caught fire as well, but by that time, the hex was expiring, and the elf dropped the flag and merely fought any others who dared attempt to take it from him.

By the time the flame died and the flag was no more than a tattered cloth and stick, the elf had successfully warded off the other contestants, protecting the flag as if it were Anders himself. He picked the thing up, the hex no longer active, and he thrust it into the air, eliciting a round of applause for the victor. Other contestants who were smart enough not to attempt to fight him lingered back near the entrance of the clearing, neither advancing nor retreating. Danarius continued to scowl and grumble under his breath, his arms crossed over his chest.

With a snap of his fingers, Danarius called over one of their slaves. As the woman leaned down to listen, Danarius whispered to her, “Remove the elf from the games for today. Prepare him for dinner with Anders and me at the estate. I will not entertain a creature so obviously a slave...”

Anders' smirk grew, and he settled comfortably back in his seat. The slave scurried off to relay the message, and five minutes later, a mage was stepping out of a false wall within the maze, approaching the elf carefully, afraid he, too, would be struck.

He explained what Danarius had ordered them to do, and soon the mage and the elf were stepping into the false wall, leaving the rest of the contestants in the maze. Danarius stood, putting on his facade of a pleased spectator, and announced that the elf would be joining him and his son as promised. The rest of the contestants, however, still had quite a few trials to pursue before he called the day to an end. Anders sighed and resigned himself to watching the rest of that day's competition, though his mind did wander to what the elf may be going through right now. Certainly Danarius' slaves and servants wouldn't be kind to him, as he was a slave himself and already he was being treated better than any of them had been. Anders hoped idly that they didn't attempt to hurt him, and found himself looking forward to the time they'd be spending together. He entertained the idea of having the elf follow him back to his bedchambers, perhaps to pretend that the elf truly won and became his bodyguard.

The Games seemed to be over sooner than usual since Anders spent most of it within his own head, playing around with fantasies and entertaining the thought of the defiant elf aiding Anders' escape attempts and perhaps even slipping into bed with him. His father had been racist all Anders' life, but he himself found elves rather appealing in an odd sort of way. He had enjoyed his time with Karl, of course, but he could never get over those large eyes, the small frame, and the almost innocent look they had to them. Anders briefly wondered if it made him like his father in a way, to lust after his own slaves...

He didn't allow himself to wallow in such thoughts, especially when they headed to their estate directly after the Games ended that night. When they reached the door, dinner had already been prepared and served, and they sat in the dining room with Danarius at the end of the table and Anders sat near the middle, though he was closer to Danarius than he would be to the elf, who would be sitting at the other end of the table.

When the elf was escorted inside, he looked confused and a little worried. He immediately dropped to his knees like a good slave and bowed, and Danarius didn't cover the chuckle that passed through his lips. Nothing pleased his father like a good ass-kissing, Anders knew, and he restrained an eye-roll at the elf's actions.

“Sit with us, slave.” Danarius said, gesturing gracefully to the chair the elf was meant to occupy. With a graceful touch of force magic, the chair was pushed back from the table, the wood screeching against the marble floor angrily. The elf glanced up hesitantly, but he stood and walked to the chair, sitting in its plush seat and pulling it and himself closer to the table.

“Thank you, Masters.” He all but whispered, his deep voice making Anders' skin tingle in desire. Oh, he had it bad for this stranger. He briefly chastised himself for how easily he found himself falling in lust with others.

“You have come far for a slave of your kind,” Danarius began the conversation, and already Anders could feel the air grow tense. The elf refused to lift his eyes past his plate, and Anders realized he was trying to restrain himself from merely shoveling the rich food down his throat. His eyes flickered to the glass set before him as well, and he carefully lifted it, peering down into the red liquid that sloshed inside. He took a sip and grimaced. Anders smirked around his own glass.

“How is it that you became so skilled?” Anders decided to ask, leaning his elbow on the table despite his father's grunted protest, “You are so agile and quick in the arena. A fair creature like yourself must have had some intense training to be able to perform some of those feats.”

The elf almost snorted, but he covered it by patting at his mouth with a napkin. He seemed to consider the question before he cleared his throat and said, “I haven't the honor of any formal training. My current Master tasks me and my family to tend to the horses and cows.”

“A farm slave.” Danarius tutted, leaning back in his chair in distaste, “No wonder the smell of shit clings to you.”

Anders shot his father an ungrateful look, but he turned back to the elf with a warm smile and said, “Well, it certainly works, doesn't it? You're very well ahead of the other contestants. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you could cut them all down given the proper training.”

“But it is not my skill that guides me, Master.” The elf said with a frown, genuine in his words. Danarius peered back at the elf, curious, and Anders felt panic well within him. Surely the elf wouldn't admit to Danarius that Anders had been helping him cheat? He thought of shaking his head, throwing something at him, perhaps even mind blasting him, but he knew it would all just make Anders look even more guilty than he felt. Danarius' eyes slid to his son, but Anders didn't return the gaze. Instead, he kept his eyes glued to the elf.

“O-Oh?” He all but squeaked, and the elf nodded with certainty.

“It is you, Master,” He said with certainty, yet before Danarius could accuse or Anders could feel an ounce of being stabbed in the back, the elf said in such absolute reverence that it made Anders nauseous, “The idea of protecting the precious Prince of Tevinter, to be his right hand, to live and breath and fight for him... It is enough to push me to prevail.”

Danarius' eyes sparkled at the words, and Anders wasn't sure if he liked the look he saw in them. His father steepled his hands together, still staring at the elf, and he said nothing. Anders cleared his throat awkwardly, then smiled once more at the elf before saying kindly, “How chivalrous of you. I'd be honored to be protected by such a formidable warrior, to be served by such a loyal slave such as yourself. Yet to win will not only earn you a place at my side, but a gift, a weapon from my father as well.”

“No weapon is powerful enough to match the sheer desire I have to protect you, My Prince.” The elf said smoothly, and Anders felt his heart palpitate for a moment. The elf was good, he thought to himself, and he narrowed his eyes briefly at the slave, though the slave didn't respond with any emotion beside sheer honesty, and Anders half wondered if the elf actually believed any of the propaganda he was spewing at them.

Anders looked back to his father, seeing a calculating look deep in the man's eyes. That was never a good sight, and Anders felt his once racing heart sink low into his stomach. The elf had given him an idea, one Anders wasn't particularly excited to discover what it may be. Danarius finally noticed his staring son, and he lowered his hands and relaxed his posture before gracing the elf with a smile.

“I may have misjudged you, slave.” Danarius said carelessly, though it didn't sound entirely like an apology, “Please take this night to become acclimated to our estate. I am beginning to think you may have to grow used to it soon enough.”

The elf's eyes brightened at that, and he bowed his head and replied, “Yes, Master.”

“Now, I must be going. I have a Game to prepare for tomorrow,” Danarius sighed as he stood from the table, “Elf, you are to escort Anders back to his bedchambers. Ensure he doesn't escape, he has a habit of getting lost even within his own home.”

The elf nodded his head, murmuring again, “Yes, Master,” and he kept his head lowered as Danarius bid Anders goodnight, leaving them alone in the dining room. A few of the slaves crept in and cleared the table, and Anders grabbed one last apple before they carried it all away. When they were alone once more, table cleared and doors shut, the elf finally raised his eyes at Anders, who was leaning back in his chair lazily, one arm strewn across the back of it, with a leg crossed over the other. He bit into the apple carelessly, staring at the elf.

“I feel I should be swooning,” Anders finally said, his voice loud in the quiet hall, and the elf flinched at first before he raised his head more, eyes leveled with Anders', “ _'Prince of Tevinter'_ he called me. _'Precious'_ he called me!” Anders continued to cry out to no one in particular, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead as he threw his head back, “Take me now, elf!”

A snort filled the room, and Anders peeked at the elf to see the blighted thing was laughing at him. He felt slightly embarrassed at first, but soon began to laugh himself. When the two settled and the room emptied of their laughter, Anders leaned forward in his seat, taking another loud bite of the apple.

“You played the man like a lute,” he complimented him, and the elf ducked his head, his cheeks coloring in shy gratitude, “You had him eating out of your hand.”

“I did not lie, Master. The weapon does not appeal to me, not as strongly as the thought of being a high slave in the estate of a Magister. I apologize if my intentions are selfish...” the elf muttered carefully, obviously still walking on eggshells even though Anders didn't need him to. The mage rolled his eyes and stood, tossing his apple at the elf who flinched and caught it.

“Eat the rest, I'm no longer hungry,” Anders suggested, but the elf took it as an order and bit into the fruit. His ears twitched and his eyes fell shut for a moment, savoring the sweet taste before he quickly finished it off. When nothing but the core was left, Anders made him leave it on the table and grabbed him by the arm, “Come. You're supposed to escort me to my bedchambers. Perhaps even tuck me in, give me a goodnight kiss and all.” He winked at the elf, who looked almost taken aback by the forwardness of it all. Still, he followed Anders out of the dining room and into the halls, looking around the luxurious and expensive home in awe. It would probably be one of the only times he'd be able to admire such a place, for even if he won, he'd be stuck babysitting Anders for the rest of his days.

Anders lead him through the house and soon brought them to his bedroom. He waved away the guards at his doors, telling them Danarius had ordered the elf to watch over him for the night. He spun a tale of his father wanting to see the elf prove himself, and the guards seemed to buy it. Either that or they were eager for a night to themselves without hearing the mage snoring in blissful sleep.

With them gone, Anders slipped into his room, tugging the elf in after him. The poor creature looked absolutely terrified at what might transpire, and the look of innocent fear sent a shock of thrill up Anders' spine. He half wanted to lean in and kiss the fear off of him and half wanted to throw him onto the bed and allow his teenage hormones to guide his way around a new body.

“The elf has earned himself a good dinner and a night with a Magister's son. What ever will he do with it?” Anders flirted casually, letting go of the elf and sitting down on his bed, pushing his robes off of his shoulders in one smooth motion, baring himself in his underclothes for the elf, who looked interested for a mere moment before he turned his head away. Anders frowned at the action. Perhaps he wasn't alluring enough? Perhaps the elf didn't have an interest in men? Well, Anders would fix that...

“I shall do as I was told. I shall guard my Master.” the elf decided, stepping away from Anders on his bed and instead siting cross-legged before the door, resolute. Anders pursed his lips at the action, then sighed and stood again, dropped the robes to the floor completely. He paused and contemplated for a moment, then continued to tug off his undershirt and his leggings, leaving himself only in his smallclothes. It was a warm Tevinter night, after all, and Anders sleeping near nude wasn't a new sight to behold in the estate. Though for the elf, who had made almost a choking noise at the sight, it definitely was, and a pleasant one at that.

“Then I shall go to sleep. Alone. Unprotected. _Vulnerable_.” Anders inflected, and he proceeded to crawl onto his bed, not even bothering to get under the covers. He strewn himself out atop his sheets, laying out on his stomach, bearing his back and legs to the staring elf. He sighed loudly, tugging a pillow to him so he could rest his head, and he said, forlorn, “I hope no assassin sneaks in through my window. No rapist creep into my bedchambers. For I am alone in my bed--”

“Oh, you will be the _death_ of me!” The elf spat out in the least polite way, and Anders grinned in victory as he watched the elf stand from his spot by the door, “Do you often have your guards and spies slip into bed with you?”

“Only when they're dark, sexy and poetic as you,” Anders winked at him, and the elf actually rolled his eyes at him, though he caught himself a moment later and cleared his throat.

“Poetic, Master?” The elf asked, tacking on the term as if he were apologizing for his earlier offense, and he awkwardly crept towards the bed, obviously uncomfortable and untrained in the ways of pleasure as he earlier said. Anders didn't mind. An innocent partner could be even more fun than an experienced one.

“Any word that slips past those plush lips of yours is like music to my ears,” Anders continued to flirt, enjoying the way the elf's face darkened with a blush, “Even the way you move is enough for me to wax poetic.”

“Eugh, stop.” The elf groused, finally crawling into the bed beside the half-naked Anders, though he didn't attempt to touch or scoot closer to him. He was thoroughly embarrassed, and Anders grinned at him and decided he pushed the elf enough. He would take the first moves from here on out, seeing as he was better versed in these acts than the elf. He reached a hand forward and began pushing the threadbare tunic from the elf's shoulders, knowing full well that this was a tunic Anders himself had worn when he had been younger and thinner in the shoulders. It fit the elf well, despite him most likely being older than him. The elf didn't fight being undressed, though he looked progressively more distressed the less he was wearing.

“Are you and your family the only slaves your soon-to-be-former Master has?” Anders asked with a smirk, and when the elf nodded, Anders' smile only grew more desirous. He pushed the elf onto his back, moving to sit atop him, and he began unlacing his trousers. He could feel him grow rigid beneath him, his fingers digging into the sheets and his eyes remaining glued on Anders' face.

“So you've never rolled around with another slave girl, so to speak?” Anders asked next, a brow raising and his hands itching to tug those trousers down and touch, but he wanted to go slow, to drag out this feeling to being this elf's first caress. Said elf shook his head no, and Anders scooted down his thighs, curling his fingers around threadbare trousers and beginning to inch them down oh so slowly. He was teasing himself more than he was teasing the elf, but he was sure the elf was enjoying it too.

“Then shall I be the first to be graced with the sight of your manhood?” Anders asked, but the elf gave him a look that made the mage realize it had never really been a question.

“I am yours, Master.” The elf reminded him in a small voice, his brow furrowing a little, “Take from me what you wish...”

Anders paused, sitting upright and looking down at the elf with raised brows. Take? No. Surely not. The elf was enjoying himself too, wasn't he? Here he was, laying in his bed, which he had come to willingly! Sure, Anders hemmed and hawed a little in order to encourage, but that was all it was; encouragement.

His fingers slipped away from the elf's trousers, settling instead on his own thighs. He didn't move from the elf's lap, though. He merely continued to stare down at him. The elf shifted and glanced away, growing anxious with the silence.

“I apologize if I said anything distasteful, Master,” The elf began to say, and Anders felt even more repulsed, more so by his own actions than by the elf beneath him, “I will speak no more if you wish it of me... Should I... finish disrobing?”

“No,” Anders said quickly, his voice low, irritable, and he finally extracted himself from the elf and stood, stepping towards the fireplace in his bedroom and casting an excessively large fireball into it. He could hear the bed creak as the elf sat up on it, and he could feel his eyes on his back. He didn't bother to explain himself, his mind too preoccupied to even attempt it. What did this mean for him, to treat an elven slave as nothing more than a bedwarmer? To nearly rape the poor creature who had so obviously been too scared to say no to him? Was he no better than his own father?

He heard the elf take a few steps on the marble floor, though the noise was light and fleeting. Anders thought the elf may have been returning to his spot by the door, and he wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly feeling too bare in his smallclothes.

He nearly jumped when he was suddenly being swathed in blankets. A hand came up to hold the sheet to his body, and he turned enough to look at the elf, who was looking up at him in confusion and a desperate desire to please. It made Anders feel worse and yet the gesture was so genuinely sweet. “Thank you,” Aster whispered, turning more so he could face the elf directly. Green eyes sparkled in satisfaction and his ears twitched, then he bowed his head.

“Anything for you, Master.” He said dutifully, making Anders sigh.

“You are a good slave,” Anders muttered half a compliment, half an admittance of defeat. Perhaps he had misjudged the elf himself.

The elf... Anders blinked and looked up at him once more, then finally asked him, “Your name. I never asked you your name.”

The elf blinked in surprise, and he took a step back, letting go of the blankets that he had still been holding closed around the mage. He seemed to regard the man for a moment, before finally relenting and whispering it secretively, “I... Leto. My name is Leto.”

“Leto,” Anders whispered back, a smile pulling at his lips, calm and intimate, unlike the lecherous ones he must have been passing him minutes before, “A handsome name for a handsome elf.”

Leto blushed once more, ducking his head and toeing at the marble floor. A moment later, Leto was suggesting lightly, “Perhaps it is best to sleep, Master? I shall keep guard.”

“Mm... Perhaps you are right.” Anders relented, smiling more. He walked his way back to his bed, his sheets trailing behind him, and he flopped onto the bed without any of his previous grace. He curled up with the blanket, tucking it around himself before he looked at Leto and said, “There is room for you yet...”

“I must keep guard.” Leto refused gently, glancing at the door, then back at Anders. The mage smiled, then sighed and closed his eyes.

“Good night, Leto.” He bid him before he allowed himself to sleep.

Leto took a slow breath, then quietly stepped around the bedroom until he found his tunic. He laced up his trousers properly once more, then tugged on the tunic and sat back down by the door, crossing his legs and keeping vigilant. It was hard, of course. He had never truly been trained to guard like this, and he grew tired quickly. He found himself nodding off once or twice, but he forced himself awake each time. It wouldn't do to have Anders harmed the first night he was in the estate, not if he wished to obtain this position. His mind ached for something to keep it entertained and active aside from his own imagination—which easily slipped into dreams—that when he heard the echoes of a conversation traveling down the halls, Leto took it upon himself to investigate.

He opened the door carefully, surprised to find a guard stationed beside the door once again, though he was quite obviously asleep. Perhaps they didn't trust Anders' story as much as Leto originally believed. He easily slipped away from the guard and continued down the hall, only slightly nervous about leaving Anders alone. But if they were to station a guard even when Leto shared his room, surely they took even more preemptive measures.

He followed the voices carefully, pausing when they grew too quiet to cover the shuffling of his feet. When he finally reached a door hanging slightly ajar, where the voices seemed to originate from, he found himself eavesdropping on a conversation between the Magister Danarius and what seemed to be his female apprentice, a teenage girl, dressed as a mage similar to him. Leto's ears twitched and strained to continue listening to their quieted conversation, though luckily their voices carried quiet well on the stone and marble.

“But he is an elf,” The girl squeaked out, “He hasn't the means of protecting Anders!”

“As I thought as well before I spoke to the slave.” Danarius agreed, a sly smirk on his thin lips. “His loyalty towards Anders, despite not even being his slave yet, is absolutely impressive. And I seek to test it on the final day of the Games, as well...” Leto's ears perked at that. How would Danarius be able to test such a thing, aside from throwing his own son in the heart of danger and telling Leto to go fetch...

Well, he _is_ a magister. He has seen them do worse.

The apprentice didn't allow Danarius to elaborate, much to Leto's chagrin, and she instead asked him, “Do you fully expect a creature as frail as an enslaved elf to be able to wield such a blessing as the Old God Toth's flame? He will shrivel and die, and you will be left without a warrior! What will you do with Anders then?”

“The elf has survived fire and beast already. He will survive the procedure.” Danarius spoke plainly, not in the mood to argue with this girl who was obviously way over the line with the way she spoke to her Teacher, “And we will continue to test him in the Games. If he truly does fall, then you will be right, and Anders will learn blood magic, and the world will still be leaning in my favor. Yet if he lives, then Anders shall be pleased. He has been eyeing the slave ever since the Games began, the fool boy. I wonder where he gets his libido from.”

The girl rolled her eyes when Danarius' back was turned, obviously thinking the answer to be obvious. Still, she didn't seem convinced with Danarius' final decision, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “I don't know why you insist on going through all this trouble. I still doubt Anders will be strong enough to embody the spirit of Toth. And why start with the Flame anyways? Wouldn't you rather know for certain if you can even recreate Toth's power in Anders before going through with the procedure? Even you said it was an expensive process...”

“The spirit of Toth will not be lured lest his Flame is within reach. If I am to recreate his ethereal being within my son, I want to gift the Old God with what once was his greatest weapon. Think of it as a 'welcome back' gift, Hadriana.” Danarius paused, then turned to look at the girl with a face of pure distaste as her words caught up with him. “What makes you think Anders will falter under such power?”

Hadriana shrank back immediately at the confrontation, her eyes wide when she realized just how far over the line she managed to stumble. Her mouth flopped for a moment before she blurted out, “He is but a healer! He has no potential to be a maleficar, and even if he did, he has no desire to be one either. You had to offer up the lessons as the bitter end of a deal!”

“Then who, Hadriana, do you think should be the one to receive Toth's spirit?” Danarius spat out the question, fully expecting her to back down. Leto did too. Even as an apprentice, she had less of a place to be questioning her Teacher like this.

But the girl was a fool, and instead of apologizing or begging for mercy, she merely cried out in exasperation, “I should! Haven't I proven myself to you, Master Danarius? I have trained under you for two years now! I have excelled at what you taught me, especially in blood magic! I am more than what Anders could ever--!” she shrieked, and the sound of skin on skin echoed loudly in the room directly afterwards. Her head had been thrown aside, Danarius' hand still hanging in the air as a silent dare for her to keep talking. When she did not, Danarius lowered his hand, then pointed a finger at her.

“Speak of my son like that again and I will use you in the procedure as an offering, girl.” He hissed out, not even caring when Hadriana began to spill tears, a small hand coming up to cradle her injured cheek, “You have overstayed your welcome in my presence. Return to your rooms and do not show your face to me until I call for you.”

Hadriana bowed her head, more tears falling, and she began to walk towards the doorway where Leto stood listening. The elf panicked and moved to skitter away, but Danarius was calling out before she could step outside. “Hadriana,” He called, and she turned to face him, her eyes wide and round and teary, “Don't forget, you are still a Laetan as well as a girl. You will go nowhere in the Imperium unless I wish it.”

Hadriana was quiet for a long moment, but finally, she whispered a defeated, “Yes, Master Danarius.”

Leto took this as his cue to actually leave, and he hurried down the halls. He knew he wouldn't get far without being caught by the retreating girl, so he found himself a niche to hide in, crouching low so she wouldn't notice him.

Hidden in the shadows, Leto watched Hadriana all but run down the halls, sniffling and quietly whimpering as she made her way to her quarters. Her pitiful noises echoed for a minute afterward, until it was cut off by the sound of a door shutting. Staying put where he was, Leto continued to wait until he heard Danarius shuffling out of the room, walking languidly down the hall, though he headed for the stairs opposite of Leto. The elf covered his mouth with his hands and watched as Danarius' figure came into view, then vanished as he ascended the staircase. He waited still as Danarius' footsteps faded, then went quiet behind one more door closing.

When he was sure there was no danger of being caught, Leto stepped out from his hidden corner and hurried back to Anders' bedroom. He paused at the end of the hall when he remembered the guard was still there, but a moment after he appeared, he heard the man's snores and sighed. He slipped back into Anders' room just as quietly as he had been when he left. Closing the door behind him, Leto resumed his position before the door, cross-legged and awake. He was determined to see this through, not only to sate the sheer curiosity he had at what Danarius and Hadriana had been discussing concerning the Old God Toth, but also to figure out what Danarius' true intentions were for Anders. If he was to be his bodyguard, that meant protecting him from _anything_ ill-intended for him.

If he hadn't been determined to win the Games, he certainly was now.

The very next morning had Leto leaving the estate and being escorted back to the arena. He stepped inside along with the other contestants, all of whom seemed to leer at Leto jealously. Of course they were upset. He, an elf as well as a slave, had spent the night in a Magister's estate, perhaps even with the beloved Prince of Tevinter himself. He thought back on how Anders had nearly taken him as well, amused in his recollection of advances the mage made. Yet the man acquiesced... Leto still didn't understand why. Perhaps he was just off-putting. He had been told by his sister Varania that he had a rather intimidating face when he wasn't paying attention, even when Leto insisted he had been thinking positive thoughts.

But he couldn't allow such thoughts to distract him. A night spent at the estate was a night bolstering Leto's determination to win the Games, to win Anders' hand, and to accept whatever weapon it was Danarius wished to bestow upon him, be it this Toth's Flame or not.

The Games that day seemed mediocre, Leto thought. Where the day before they had been fighting for a night with their possible new Masters, and the day before that going up against a Magister and his line of mages, this challenge consisted mostly of puzzle-solving. Traps and hexes were set into the makeshift walls and floors, but a keen eye and a light foot allowed Leto to slip past them without much trouble. The only real worry he had was whenever he came side-by-side with another contestant, and the thought of shoving them in the way of a trap and forcing it to set off came to mind, lest he risk them doing the very same to him. This typically resulted in a sort of silent challenge between himself and whoever the contestant may be, but more times than not, they would turn away from one another. One human man did attempt to shove Leto in the way of a false floor that gave to a pit of spikes, but the fool lost his footing, allowing Leto to spin him around and send him headfirst instead.

Above them, the sun rose and fell, keeping time on how long they had to endure the traps and contestants. The numbers were dwindling quickly, Leto noticed. When he caught a moment of reprieve from the bloodshed, he sent a look up towards the elevated booth Anders and Danarius sat in. He saw Anders watching him, smiling his way when their eyes met and discretely waving his smallest finger at him. He also saw Danarius whispering to a slave, who was nodding slowly, eyes distant but face drawn in focus. Moments later, the slave stepped away from Danarius and went to Anders, leaning in to whisper to the boy. Anders frowned and glanced up at the slave, then at his father before he rolled his eyes and stood, following the slave out of the booth and out of Leto's sight. When Anders was gone, Leto's eyes slid back to Danarius, who smirked almost knowingly at him.

A moment later, Leto was being tackled and slammed right against a false wall. A thick forearm was pressed against his neck and Leto squirmed, clawing at the human's arm and gagging from the pressure. He had been distracted, and now he was going to pay the price, it seemed. He struggled harder, then decided he hadn't the strength to usurp this man, so instead he allowed his eyes to roll back in his head and his entire body to go limp. He still had the urge to gag and cough, his lungs screaming at him for air, but he held off. The human, assuming he had finally killed the elf, let go of Leto and let him crumple to the floor. Leto's throat was relieved, but he still refused to gasp in air, or else he would blow his cover. Instead, he waited, waited until the man was turning away and about to head down the maze to make his move.

With his back turned to Leto, he allowed himself a slow, quiet breath, and focused his eyes on the human once again. He slowly stood, digging his fingers into the dirt beneath him and grabbing a handful. He drew back his arm, then shouted out in poorly accented Elvish, “ _Dirthara-ma, shemlen!_ ”

The human spun around in surprise, but Leto had thrown the dirt, temporarily blinding the man as he shouted in pain and scrabbled at his face, attempting to wipe the fine dust and rock away. Leto used this chance to run at him, throwing himself at him when he got close enough and tackling the man to the ground. He grabbed his head with both hands, and he began to press his thumbs down directly on his eyes, feeling them beginning to give. The man was screaming and flailing, trying and almost succeeding in shoving Leto off of him, but the elf forced him back down and pinned his arms to the ground with his knees.

“Stew in it, _shemlen_. Defeated by an elf, a slave, when you are... what? A servant? A merchant, maybe? I have bested you,” Leto hissed out at him, and then he felt the squelch of his eyes, and fluid and blood filled his sockets. He let go of the man then and stood, stepping away from him with a scowl. “Suffer for it.”

His eyes turned up to the booth, and he scowled deeper when he saw Anders had yet to return. Danarius was tapping his fingers against the armrest of his chair, a sick smirk on his face even as he looked down at Leto, and the elf knew Danarius had something evil planned.

He only hoped Anders would not be a part of it. He recalled Danarius saying he wanted to test Leto's loyalty, and the thought scared him. It definitely wouldn't be today. Yet tomorrow was the day before the official final day of the Games. Would Danarius hold off until then, or would he end it all tomorrow with Leto's final test?

Given that he lived to that point. He reminded himself he needed to focus, especially when he heard a girl screaming halfway across the arena. He had no time to wander in his own thoughts, he needed to survive. For his sake. For Anders. For his family.

If it still worried him, Leto would warn Anders of what he had overheard when Anders came to him that night. While that would almost mean admitting he had been eavesdropping on Danarius, he felt Anders would understand his concern. Besides, what good would a bodyguard be if he didn't even consider Anders' closest and most personal companions, family included? His soon-to-be Master had already proven to be the understanding type, if not a little lecherous, but what more could Leto hope for? His current Master beat him and his family for the smallest grievances, constantly raped his mother, and was starting to eye Varania a bit too closely for Leto's liking.

He ducked into a dead end, pressing himself against the wall and watching as another elf sprinted by. He didn't go after him, half out of respect for his own kind. He was also partial to not risking too much injury if there was a chance he would have to risk himself for Anders at the end of these Games. He stepped out of his hiding spot and continued to roam the maze. Unlike the last one, there was no final objective aside from survive. The only reason he and the other contestants kept moving instead of cowering in one spot was the desire to win.

As the sun hit the horizon, Danarius called an end to the challenge. The spectators applauded politely, though it seemed this round had been a lot less exciting than previous ones. Leto half thought that could have been due to himself. He didn't exactly have a chance to show any exemplary skill, unlike the last few days. The remaining contestants bowed and waved to the crowd as they emptied the arena and walked to their tents. Leto made sure to keep a distance between himself and the rest of them, though fighting outside of the arena was strictly forbidden. He still didn't really want to risk it.

Stepping into his tent, Leto waited. Anders usually appeared about an hour after the Games ended for the day, but the elf had no way to pass the time any faster than by just sitting there, cross-legged and contemplating. He could hear the other contestants outside, talking amongst one another, breaking bread and laughing. He wondered why they would put themselves through this, or why they would put on this facade. At the end of the Games, only one would remain standing. Wouldn't harboring friendships only make it harder for one to win?

Leto leaned forward pushing open the flaps to his tent to watch them as they stood around the campfire, warming themselves in the flickering firelight. One woman had begun to sing while clapping her hands. They had no means of real instruments, but the others took to the song and began dancing. Leto rose a brow, and he carefully stepped out of his tent, still watching them.

Their laughter and joy were tantalizing, and he almost wanted to go over and join them. He hesitated by his tent, though... he needed to wait for Anders. Of course, he wouldn't show if the others were still up like this. They'd spot him in seconds.

The woman stopped singing abruptly and a few others spun around to look at him directly, their faces cast in shadows, unable to be read. Leto felt panic well up in him. Surely he wasn't the only slave there... was he? Deciding not to risk any undue punishment, he slipped back into his tent, his heart racing. He could hear their voices, though he couldn't decipher their words. He tucked himself further back in his tent as if he could hide in it, especially when footsteps began to approach.

Suddenly, the tent flap was being yanked back, and a human woman was looking into it at him. She was the same woman who had helped him to his feet the day they went up against the Magister. She smiled at him, but he averted his eyes.

“Come break bread with us, elf. Celebrate with us.” She bid him, and Leto glanced fleetingly at her face before he drew his knees to his chest.

“Celebrate what?” He questioned her quietly, not wanting to be defiant, but truly curious. What could they celebrate about their situation that they had all willingly put themselves in? They were all standing on death's door, tempting the fates by being in these Games.

“Being alive, of course! Probably won't be able to celebrate it for long, you know?” she said wisely, then she reached in and grabbed his wrist, yanking him out of his tent with surprising strength. She tugged him with her, bringing him to the campfire, the other twenty or thirty contestants already surrounding it. They all watched them, some of them murmuring to one another behind their hands. Leto felt horribly out of place.

“This is all that's left of us,” The woman continued to say, gesturing to their group, “Twenty-eight contestants out of a little over two-hundred applicants. Amazing, isn't it?”

“Ever the optimist, even in the face of death,” A human man called out, getting a few chuckles from those around him.

“And that optimism is what got me through the games thus far!” the woman claimed, crossing her arms and raising a brow, despite the groans and jeers from her equals.

“Shut it, Briala!”

“Take your damned optimism elsewhere!”

“Maker take you, foolish girl!”

Leto pursed his lips at the shouts, but Briala merely threw her head back and laughed, as if they had been joking with her, when a mere glance at their body language proved otherwise. She suddenly threw an arm around Leto's shoulders, leaning heavily against his side, and she asked the slave, “And what say you, hmm? You've been quite the talk of the town recently, or so I've heard. That Elf Boy is on everyone's lips!”

Leto shifted, wholly uncomfortable, but it was a direct question, and he was inclined to answer. Bowing his head, he murmured loud enough for those closest to him to hear, “One must have faith in something... be it baseless optimism or the strength of one's own desires....”

A few others whispered to each other, asking what he had just said, but Briala was looking at him with wide, sparkling eyes as if moved by his words. She patted his shoulder twice, then let go of him and grinned.

“See what a night in the Magister Danarius' estate does to you? Already waxing poetic about faith!” Briala joked, and Leto grimaced when poetry was brought up once more. He shook his head and crossed his arms, toeing the ground awkwardly. However, Briala bringing up Leto's night with the Magister and his son ended up raising questions from the rest of the group.

“So were you really inside Danarius' mansion?” One man asked, and Leto nodded silently, “What was it like? I heard the walls are built of pure gold.”

“I heard they had grand, luxurious baths, enchanted to always smell of roses,” A woman called out, eyes sparkling in desire, “Did you bathe while there?”

“Don't be a fool, the elf is a slave. There's no way Danarius would have let him bathe in his estate! He probably took the elf home and forced him to scrub the floors, dinnit'e?”

“Ha! It was probably just a test run to see if Danarius actually wanted an elf slave! Could you imagine this scrawny knife-ear being a bodyguard to the Prince? A strong wind would blow the boy over!”

Leto bristled, as did the other two elves who had survived thus far. The three of them glanced at one another, one a female and the other male, but none of them said a word. They knew better than to argue with a crowd of humans. Leto ducked his head, glaring at the dirt.

“Elves are supposed to have brilliant eyesight and hearing, though. Plus, I heard there's no better archer than an elven one!” Briala spoke up, and while Leto understood the sentiment, he couldn't help but feel it were merely more stereotypical remarks. Sure his senses were better than a human's, but he had never even touched a bow and arrow, much less excelled in the art of archery. If anything, he was better with a cow prod. He still sent Briala a brief smile when she bumped his elbow purposefully.

Still, her words did little to quell the imagination of the group.

“I bet he cleaned out their chamberpots! How's the Magister's shit smell?”

“I say he was thrown to the kitchen and forced to cook for them, then kneel there and watch them eat it!”

“Poor elf, promised dinner and a relaxing night and probably spent it washing the windows of Danarius' estate!”

“I wouldn't be surprised if we found fresh cane markings on his arse!”

“I bet--”

“I slept with the Prince.” Leto suddenly blurted out, arms crossed and head still ducked, but it was enough to quiet the crowd. When he realized they were all staring at him, he decided to continue with the lie, “The Magister sent me to guard his bedchambers. The Prince pulled me inside. Brought me to the bed with promise of a better reward than dinner.”

The crowd stayed quiet, still staring at Leto expectantly, but when he didn't go on, one of them shouted an almost violent, “That's bullshit! Why would Anders want to sleep with a scrawny knife-eared bastard like you? You probably dreamt the damned thing!”

“If that's what you care to believe,” Leto sighed, turning his head away without care, “You can enjoy your fantasy as you fill your fist tonight. I get the memory of filling the favored Prince of Tevinter. _Much_ warmer.” Even as he spat the words out, Leto saw most of the humans tensing in disgust and rage—perhaps even jealousy in some of them. The two elves were grinning down at the floor. No matter if they thought Leto was being honest or not, the reactions he was earning was much appreciated to the racist slander.

“I'll fucking murder you, you damned elf!” One of them shouted, getting to his feet along with a few others, “You dare slander the Prince's name like that?! You're a dead elf!”

“ _Tel'abelas_ , but I must retire,” Leto said with a wave of his hand, and he began to head back to his tent.

“ _Dareth shiral, Lethallin._ ”

“ _Fen'Harel ma ghilana_.” The elves called to him, amusement in their voices. Leto slipped back into his tent, the grin all but glued to his face, and he laid back and waited. He still expected Anders to show, but even hours after the last contestant retired to their tent, the mage didn't appear. Perhaps it was because Leto hadn't gotten hurt. Surely he didn't want to risk coming here unless there was a purpose for his visit, but Leto felt a little bummed out by it.

With a sigh, he decided he waited long enough, and he allowed himself to sleep. Whatever happened in the Games tomorrow, Leto could only hope Anders wouldn't be a part of it.

But of course, Leto was an elf, and not even his own Gods would grant his wish. He stepped into the Arena with the other twenty-seven contestants, immediately greeted by the sight of Anders kneeling at the far end, tied up, blindfolded, and gagged. The spectators were all oddly quiet, uncomfortable with the sight of their Prince in the middle of what had been a bloodbath for the past few days. Danarius kept his seat in the booth, a delighted smirk on his face and his eyes trained particularly on Leto, who felt his stomach sink in anticipation.

“What a fine week it has been,” Danarius began, his voice carrying with the assistance of magic through the arena. Slowly, he rose from his seat, and he walked to the rail of the booth, leaning heavily against in. “What began as a small army of contestants, and now not even thirty men, women, and elves stand before me.”

Leto and the other two elves glanced at each other, the woman crossing her arms with a pout.

“Now I regret not making this year's Games challenging enough. I fear it may all end today. Alas, the festivities shall continue on until the morrow, as promised, but I think at the end of the night, we will have our Champion.” Danarius paused, letting the crowd absorb the information, a thrilled murmur rolling over them like waves. Leto eyed the space around Anders, who was currently struggling to get free. He mustn't have consented to this... but there were no hexes or circles in the ground around him. Leto didn't even see a hint of a trap nearby, either...

“The contestants will each be rewarded a weapon of their choosing.” Danarius announced, and suddenly four mages were rushing in, carrying with them carts of weapons, all ranging from bows and arrows to broadswords to daggers. Slowly, they all approached the carts and rustled through them. The larger human men chose the larger swords, Briala grabbed a set of daggers. The female elf the bow and arrows, the male elf a lone knife. Leto warily approached the cart himself, looking over the weaponry with hesitation. It would be suicide not to grab anything, but he had never been trained or even practiced with a weapon such as these. He reached out to push some of the knives aside, but then one of Danarius' mages was approaching Leto, lifting a hand to stop him.

“And I present a gift to Elf, the crowd's favorite as well as my son's.” Danarius announced, and the mages produced a large, heavy-looking sword that could have easily been the the exact size of Leto's arm. It was as if the blade were made specifically for him, and he grasped the handle with both hands, giving it a test swing. He had never held a blade before, but with this in his hands, the world felt right.

A glance at the other contestants and Leto knew that whatever happened this day, he was going to be their main mark. He better learn how to handle the blade quickly...

“The purpose of the final challenge is to truly test your loyalty to my son. A bodyguard is useless if he gives into temptation... And who better to tempt?” Danarius grinned, discretely cutting open his forearm just below the railing, and summoning forth not just a handful, but a small battalion of demons, ranging from the mere shade to three fierce rage demons. One desire demon floated in the center as well, her lustful laugh filling the air for a moment. The crowd sat silently for a long moment, then erupted into awed cheer, already excited at the prospect of the day's challenge.

Anders was screaming behind his gag. Leto's ears twitched at the noise, the urge to run forward almost irresistible. He saw the other elves could hear him, too. The elves glanced at one another, Leto knowing he would easily cut them down if they got in his way.

“ _Ir-abelas_ , sister,” The male elf whispered to the girl, “Only one elf will make it to the end and it isn't us.”

“I will not harm you without reason,” Leto told them, but the elves merely smiled at him.

“Perhaps, but they will,” The girl said, glancing back at the humans, “Win for us, elf. Show them that we are more than our ears.”

Leto gave them a dutiful nod, and even as Danarius continued to explain the game to the crowd, Leto knew what was going to happen. Anders was distressed, and he needed to protect him.

The words “let the games begin” had barely slipped from Danarius mouth when Leto darted forward, shoving through the front lines of the contestants and aiming straight for the first shade. Arrows flew past him, the female elf, and they sunk deep into the shade's inky hide. Leto roared and swung his blade about carelessly, striking the creature more than cutting into him. He readjusted his grip quickly, and brought the sword down on it, managing to wedge it into the space between its neck and bony arm. The creature squealed and squirmed, black liquid oozing from the wound, and Leto had to yank the blade out of it before he could swing again.

The desire demon had made itself comfortable guarding Anders, running her hands up and down his chest, slipping under the collar of his tunic even, whispering into his ear. Did Danarius truly trust his son strongly enough that he wouldn't accept a demon's offer, Leto wondered. He didn't want to find out if Anders was as weak willed as any other mage could be, and he shoved past the wounded shade, dodging and weaving past other battles between demon and contestants. He heard a shrill scream behind him, but didn't look. No more arrows flew.

Leto nearly made it halfway to Anders, but his mad dash his way was cut short when a molten rage demon slid in front of him. It reared back its lump of a head and roared, the beast only growing in size, and Leto felt the fear he was trying to ignore within him grow.

He raised his sword, prepared to defend himself, but in a blur of color, suddenly the rage demon was jumped on, twin blades dug into its shoulders. Briala cried out as she yanked one blade out, dragging with it a line of lava, and she thrust the blade right into the creatures skull—if it even had one. Leto thought for a moment that he should help, but that wouldn’t get him to Anders any faster.

Silently wishing Briala would forgive him, he skirted around her and the demon and resumed his run to Anders. The desire demon caught his eye, then smirked and whispered something else to the mage, making him shake his head violently. After, the demon began to pull away from him, and she slowly walked towards the still running Leto. When the elf realized she was headed straight for him, though, he slowed, then stopped a few paces in front of her.

“What a fanciful sight,” she all but moaned out, running a hand down her torso and stomach before resting it on her hip, “an Elven warrior. How cute he is, so weak and delicate and yet swinging around a long-sword as if he knew how to use it.” She advanced towards him, and Leto took a single step back before he grimaced and stood his ground. When she was in reaching distance, she ran a hand over his shoulder, then down his chest and right to his trousers, tugging at them briefly. She leaned into the elf, and said in a mocking voice, “I heard you the night before, Elf. Claiming you had yourself in the mage boy behind me. Telling everyone how you spilled within him. But I know the truth, don’t I?”

“Silence,” Leto gritted out, but she only laughed at him, shaking her head.

“You were scared to let him have you. Scared to become emotionless and empty like your mother. Scared that you _wouldn’t_. And you knew you wouldn’t. You would like it. No, you would _beg_ for it. But you don’t want him to know that, do you? The poor, touch-starved elf… how you wanted him to rip your clothes off that night and _take, take, take_.” She tugged at his trouser, and he didn’t react more than a startled grunt, but his eyes were wide and glued on her.

“I can make it happen, Leto.” She whispered to him, “I can make him do anything you wish of him. All you have to do is one… little…. Favor…” she drew closer, her head tilted and her lips aimed to crash into his. She was almost there, too, but at the last moment, Leto drew back from her. She stared at him, frowning, and she glanced down at his lips before she said, “Come, elf. Let us seal the agreement.”

“I agree with nothing.” Leto declared, and he lifted the blade and shoved her back by the flat side of it, “I will not betray my Prince. Now step aside or I will force you.”

The demon’s frown turned first into a hurt look of confusion, and then one of pure anger. “You are a fool elf if you think you will win. Even if you are the last contestant standing, you are a dead slave.”

With a turn of his wrist, Leto rolled the blade, setting the sharp edge of it on her neck. She stilled for a moment, and Leto hissed out angrily, “Step. Aside.”

They stood there, staring each other down tensely for a long moment, but finally the demon relented, taking a few steps back and allowing Leto passage to the still bound and gagged mage. Leto kept his eyes on the desire demon still, not trusting her to keep her claws to herself. He kept the blade tilted her way as he began to walk past, but when he was well out of her reach, he gave up the slow pace and ran to Anders' side, dropping to his knees in front of him.

“I beg you, be calm, Master,” Leto whispered gently to the still struggling mage, but at the sound of Leto's voice, Anders made a exasperated noise and slumped forward, resting heavily against the elf. Leto let out a short breath of his own, but he reached up and tugged the blindfold from Anders' eyes first, immediately being met by a thankful gaze. The gag went next, and as he worked on Anders' bound wrists, the mage groaned and worked his sore jaw.

“This is so fucking insane!” Anders cried, flexing his fingers as Leto continued to struggle with the knot, only to finally give up and use the blade to cut the rope, “On my birthday, my father decides to cast a sleeping spell on me and throw me into the middle of the arena!”

“My sincerest apologies, Master. I came as fast as I could,” Leto said, and his voice absolutely dripped with shame. Finally, Anders' wrists popped free, and he groaned and caressed the reddened skin before he finally allowed himself a look at their surroundings. Ten bodies lay strewn across the arena, the female elf being one of them, while the remaining handful were left fighting the last two rage demons. No one had touched or gone near the desire demon, who continued to stare at Anders and Leto, floating in the air as if she were lounging casually. Some of the other contestants, weak willed as they were, had ended up making deals with the demons, and were turned into abominations themselves. Anders grimaced, and he turned his head away for a moment before his face wrinkled in disgust.

“Well, I am only glad that it is you who reached me.” Anders told Leto, looking at the elf with a genuine smile. The elf quickly averted his gaze, clutching the sword in his hands tightly.

“The competition is not over, Master. It will not end 'til only one stands.” Leto warned the mage, and he stood slowly, holding onto Anders' arm to help him up alongside him, “Please stay back. I must protect you.”

“Fuck that.” Anders said bluntly, and Leto flinched both at the animosity of it and at the word itself. His soon-to-be-former master never had such... colorful language as the Prince. Leto's shock went unnoticed, though, and Anders patted off his cloaks, turned to glare at his father, then declared, “I'm fighting with you. It's what Daddy wants.”

Leto snorted, his head ducked, and he muttered under his breath, “Daddy,” but he stiffened when Anders glanced his way. Leto instead gripped his sword tighter and stepped forward, gritting his teeth in anxiety, “Then allow me to take the front, Master.”

“Fine, but that demon bitch is mine.” Anders huffed, cracking his knuckles. He was weak without a staff or stave, but that didn't mean he couldn't cast magic at all. It might be just a bit more... messy than usual. “You are to keep the shades and rage demons off of me, understood?”

“Yes, Master.” Leto replied automatically, and Anders cringed when he realized he had just given the slave an order. It was too late to rephrase it now, however, and he cast a shield around himself and Leto. The slave jolted at first when the magic touched him, but he didn't hesitate or question Anders about it. Instead, he surveyed the arena and the remaining living. When a shade drew close, Leto took it as his cue and ran towards the demon, attacking it with all he had.

With Leto busy, Anders turned his focus on the desire demon, who smirked at Anders and slowly lowered herself back to the ground, stepping up to him with that sultry walk of hers.

“You have yet to accept my deal, my love,” She whined at him, getting close enough to pet at his chest and tuck her nose against his neck. Anders shuddered, but he didn't let it get to him, and he took a step back so he could properly shove her away. She stumbled backwards, her eyes wide and hurt, and then they began to turn green. Changing alongside her eyes, her skin turned darker, smoother, and her body's frame grew more rectangular yet remained relatively thin. Jet black hair sprouted from her head, though the horns remained. A mockery of Leto stood before Anders, and the mage scowled even more, lifting a hand to ward her off.

“Just say yes, Master,” She said in his voice, though it warbled and echoed strangely. She dropped to her knees and began to crawl towards Anders, reaching his feet where she bent and began to kiss the tops of his shoes, “Agree to be mine, Master, and I will do anything for you.”

“Disgusting,” Anders scoffed out, kicking her away as if she were but a bug, but she continued on with the act, rolling onto her side and whimpering in pain.

“Is this what you want?” She asked him, and in a shimmer, shackles appeared on her wrists, chaining her disguise as Leto to the ground, “To rule him? To put him in his place? He is such a defiant creature. Punish me, Master. Make me beg for your mercy.” It was lecherous, the way she said it. It was tantalizing, imagining Leto displayed for him, begging him willingly.

Anders heard Leto shouting loudly, followed by a human woman's scream. A glance over his shoulder displayed the elf cutting down an abomination, only to spin around and parry a human man's sword. Only one rage demon remained and the shades were all but destroyed, but the contestants were turning on one another now, and Leto was their collective enemy.

“He will die by your hand.” The desire demon was suddenly whispering right into his ear, and Anders shouted and jolted backwards, blasting her away with a strong pulse of force magic. She cried out wantonly, slamming back into the wall of the arena before grimacing in pain.

“Master!” Leto called out to him, and Anders spun around again to see worry in the slave's eyes. Two more humans were tag-teaming him, almost to the point of actually overpowering him. Anders focused on the hexes and spells he was versed in, and he sent a spell of electricity upon Leto's sword. The blade all but exploded in power, electrocuting one opponent, and causing the other to rear back in regret. Leto stood in awe of the power, and then his expression turned absolutely violent. He ran after the retreating contestant, shouting at him in accented Elvish.

Anders turned back to the desire demon, still dressed in a mockery of Leto's skin, and she grinned at him with knowing eyes.

“I know things.” She told him, and a pulsing blue light began to creep up her skin in swirls and dots, curling around her limbs like vines and stopping at her fingertips, her feet, and just below her lips. Anders' lip curled in surprised distaste, and she chuckled darkly at him. “I know what Danarius plans for you, _Old God_. Come to me. Take me in. Let me share with you my knowledge.”

An applause was heard distantly, Anders slowly being pulled in by the lure of knowledge. Was she lying? It was a possibility. But for a long time, Anders knew his father had been up to something. He had been surrounded by bodyguards all his life, and now his father ran a week long festival to choose yet another guard? Something was going on, Anders knew it, but he never suspected a desire demon to know as well...

He took a step closer but stopped when a figure stepped between him and the demon, a blade aimed at her throat.

“Master,” Leto's true voice came, and Anders blinked harshly, snapping out of whatever pull the demon had managed to get on him. The elf had his eyes on the demon, but his ears were twitching, listening for Anders, “It is but a ruse. I am here.”

Anders looked between Leto and the demon, his mind struggling to catch up. Leto had been tasked to protect Anders from the demons, not intrude. He turned around, looking back at the arena he had turned away from, and found a pile of bodies behind him, flanked by two still standing competitors. The woman with twin blades was twirling them skillfully in her hands, while the small elf boy was merely staring down at his feet, forlorn.

“The demons are all gone, Master,” Leto was saying, and Anders turned back to him and the desire demon, who was slowly melting back into her original form, “All but this one.”

“I will take care of her,” Anders said, stepping forward, but Leto tensed at that and gave Anders a wary glance. It made Anders bristle a little. Did the slave have no trust in him to not succumb to her lies? Of course, had Leto not stepped in, perhaps he would have... but he was not weak willed. He wouldn't fall again so easily. When Anders leveled Leto with a look, the elf's ears drooped a little, but he acquiesced. He lowered his sword and relaxed his stance, but he didn't drop the fight from his muscles completely.

Anders lifted a hand, focusing on the Entropic magic Danarius had pushed him to learn, paralyzing the demon, then subduing her to a life drain. She gagged and shuddered, her vivid purples and blacks dulling to a dull grey. Leto watched it all with wide eyes, his mouth hanging slightly open. He was awed by Ander's power, and the spectators—still watching the action—were all on the edges of their seats.

“Spare me,” The demon begged in a choked whisper, and Ander's lips curled back in a disgusted grimace.

“And miss the chance to peacock in front of an entire stadium of people? Now, now, little demon, I thought you knew better. I'm Tevinter. I _love_ peacocking.” Anders sneered, and he set a hex upon her, which burned into her skin as if her were to have branded her.

“Cut her down,” He commanded Leto, and the elf moved to obey. Lifting the blade, it took but one strike for the hex to work, and the demon shrieked shrilly as she disintegrated. Another applause filled the air, the elf and the human woman behind them joining in, and Danarius stood once more, looking down at the Arena.

“Very nicely done,” he complimented, smirking, “Especially you, my dear Anders. I do love seeing you perform your magic.”

Anders refrained from telling his own father to sit on it.

“However, I am afraid my eyes do not deceive me. There are three contestants left within my arena. I expect only one to walk out of here alive.”

Ander's anger turned to disbelief, and he looked over at Leto, who looked just as shaken by what was being proposed. The elf spun around, looking at the other two, his blade still held tight in his hand.

“No,” He whispered almost pleadingly, and Anders rushed to end it before it could even begin.

“Enough, father! We have our Champion. I am done with the bloodshed. Let him be mine already!” He begged, invoking the adoration of the crowd to lean on his side. Danarius frowned at this, knowing full well what Anders was doing. Leto looked at the mage as well, surprised and confused, but ultimately grateful for the attempt.

“The rules are rules, my boy. Only one Champion per Game. If you wish the elf to be yours, he will have to kill the others.” Danarius sneered, then, and he proposed a question to no one in particular, “For what kind of guard would he be if he were not able to kill even those he is familiar with to keep you safe?”

The crowd seemed to murmur in agreement, and that murmur became an endless chant, demanding the elf finish the game and kill the remaining contestants.

Briala frowned and dropped her daggers, lowering herself onto her knees and bowing her head, resigned to her fate. The elf boy hesitated at first, but ultimately did the same, though he twitched and shook in fear. They were giving up, giving their lives to Leto so that he may come out as victor. At the sight, Leto suddenly felt sick to his stomach. He mentally reprimanded himself, knowing it had been a bad idea to show an interest in the others as they celebrated their final night alive. It would have been so much easier had he never made their acquaintance.

But he had to do this. He needed to come out on top. If he didn't, then he would die instead. He gripped his sword tightly, then sucked in a strong breath and began marching towards them. Briala closed her eyes and the elf began to cry, shaking even harder. Anders took a few steps after Leto, but stopped a distance away, not wanting to watch.

“I am sorry,” Leto said to them, and the elf cried harder. Leto walked behind them, keeping his actions hidden, and he raised his blade above his head, the tip of the sword aimed down. He brought it down on the elf first, piercing him in a swift move, only to have to use his foot to wrench the thing out of him so he could kill Briala.

As he stood behind her, Leto whimpered out again, “I am so sorry...” and he lifted his blade once more.

“I forgive you.” Briala replied to him, halting Leto's movements for a moment longer, but the sword fell upon her, too, killing her quickly. When he tore the blade from her body, the crowd cheered again, but Leto felt dizzy. He dropped his blade, took a step towards Anders, then fainted, collapsing to the ground with only Anders' shout to follow him into the Fade.

 


	2. A New Slave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: Graphic depictions of violence, torture, and abuse. Racism.
> 
> This is not a gentle chapter.

Leto could feel his body being moved before he actually woke up. People were arguing with one another, shouting at each other at the tops of their lungs. Leto thought fleetingly that it was his parents, his father accusing his mother of infidelity when their Master had been forcing himself on her. Leto rolled onto his side, reaching out for Varania, his little sister who would always be curled up against him, but instead his arms met nothing. He slipped back into the Fade in a bought of confusion, and the voices vanished as well.

When he woke again, it was properly. He opened his eyes, shifted about, then slowly sat up. His head was pounding and he was in a small room on a meager mat, a thin blanket strewn over him and the floor for a pillow. Beside him sat a figure in the semi-darkness, and when Leto stirred, so did he.

“Oh, Maker, Leto,” Anders gasped out in surprise, “Finally, you're awake...”

“Wh--” Leto began to ask, but he thought better of it and instead he bowed his head, ignoring the throbbing, and he mumbled, “I apologize, Master... I am... confused.”

“I bet you are. My father is incensed. You embarrassed him in front of the entire stadium when you collapsed. He wanted to flog you and hang you, but I managed to talk him down, convincing him the pain of your injuries had merely caught up with you. Oh, but... in order to make it believable, I... Maker, forgive me...” Anders explained in a rush, his tone turning guilty and his hands reaching up to hide his face, “I had to burn your legs again. They may still sting—Father had told me to heal you. He is really insistent on keeping you now, or else he would have never let me use my healing abilities again...”

Leto glanced down where the blankets covered his legs, but he felt nothing. To be sure, he wiggled his toes. Still nothing. He shook his head and looked back at Anders, frowning. “I have shamed Master's father... I deserve punishment.”

Anders shook his head, then sighed and dropped his hands into his laps, mumbling in an upset tone, “Maker, but you are a good slave.” When Leto made a curious noise, Anders lifted his head and smiled at him, avoiding the obvious question and instead saying, “Father is still a little upset, but he said he would be coming back soon. You are, after all, the Champion. He has quite a lot to discuss with you.”

Leto nodded in only slight understanding. It seemed surreal that he was actually the Champion, and even more so when he thought back on how he had to get here. Fighting bears, mages, humans, even _demons_... It would make for a very impressive story, he supposed. He shifted where he sat and thought about what being a Champion entailed. He now belonged to Anders, and by extension, Danarius himself. He would be given a weapon—the Flame of Toth if he had overheard properly—and he would be trained in the art of combat in order to be Anders' bodyguard.

Recalling this made Leto remember the conversation he had eavesdropped on, and he looked up at Anders with a sudden purpose. Anders looked surprised at the look, but before he could ask, Leto was already telling him, “Master, I—I apologize for speaking out of turn and for... what I am about to confess, but... I think this may be important to your safety. When I was granted hospitality here for a night, I may have... heard an echo of a conversation. Between the Master Danarius and his apprentice. He spoke of the Old Gods, Master. Of a weapon and a spirit and--” the door to the room swung open, cutting Leto off. Anders turned his head upwards, then sighed and stood, making Leto duck his head even more.

“Father,” Anders greeted flatly, his eyes mirthless. Danarius sighed dramatically, and he waved his staff around, casting a rather bright mage light in the room. Leto flinched at the sudden brightness, but he still didn't raise his head.

“I see the elf is awake. Good. Anders, help him up. We must discuss his prizes.” Danarius instructed, and Anders rolled his eyes and bent at the waist, wrapping his arms around Leto's middle and tugging him up to his feet. Leto got up carefully, pretending as if he were still a little tender in the feet, just to try and bolster Anders' excuse for him. Danarius regarded him with a cool indifference, then took off down the hall, Anders pulling Leto along behind him.

They reached a sitting room, with two plush couches and one wooden chair. Leto recognized it as his seat and easily slipped into it. Danarius and Anders occupied their own couches, Anders slouching a little while Danarius merely reclined into the luxurious fabric. Silence stretched between the three of them as Danarius reached for a bottle of wine set on the table between himself and Anders, pouring himself and his son a glass before he set it back down. Anders picked up the glass and sipped, but he stayed attentive to both the elf and his father.

“My son and I made a deal at the beginning of the Games,” Danarius began, swirling the wine around in his glass and keeping his eyes off of Leto's down turned face, “He had been so adamant in believing you would come out victorious. I, of course, was doubtful. I thought I would win, so I agreed that I would allow you a boon if you were to come out on top. And now... here we are.” He said it almost viciously, as if Leto had personally wronged him by winning the Games, and Leto shifted a little in his seat. Danarius continued to leer at his wine glass, and with a quick pull, he emptied it.

“Any one wish, and I shall grant it. Make your demands.” Danarius prompted, and Leto stiffened where he sat as he considered his options. He could easily wish for his freedom, step away from Danarius and Anders, leave this world of slavery and pain behind him, but when he gazed through his lashes up at the teen, he saw Anders staring almost expectantly at him. He hid the expression well, but the touch of fear and worry were visible in his bright blue eyes. No, he couldn't leave Anders for whatever it was Danarius had planned for him.

He could perhaps wish for apprenticeship under Danarius, unlock the possibility of having any sort of magical prowess, but he strongly doubted the chance. He hadn't shown any inclination to the divine up to this point. He could also wish for riches of a sort, but he would still be a slave, so any money he had would just go straight back to Danarius.

“Perhaps he has been made lame from the Games,” Danarius was suddenly saying, and Anders shot his father a sour look.

“He is considering his options, leave him be.” Anders complained, and he set his half-empty glass of wine of the table before he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Anything you wish, Leto, and my father will provide.”

Leto glanced at Anders again, hesitant. He could ask for Ander's hand. Then he would be freed and at Anders' side... but he doubted the mage would appreciate that. And even if he was granted Anders' hand, it wasn't like he would actually be able to wed him. If anything, he would merely be turning himself into a bed slave, not a bodyguard. It wasn't like he would be able to make a family with him--

Of course! Leto leaned back, bringing a hand up to his head in shock at himself. There was no question to what he needed to ask for, and forgetting his place, Leto looked at Danarius and demanded, “Set my family free. Ensure they stay with one another and are kept on their feet. Make it so no Magister or their former Master could touch them again.” Danarius leveled him with a look, and Leto dropped his eyes again and tacked on a meager, “Master.”

“So be it. Your family shall be freed, given compensation, and ensured paid work. Consider it done.” Danarius waved a hand, and suddenly another slave was walking up to them, handing Danarius parchment and a quill. He wrote at length, the only sound filling the room the tip of the quill on paper, and when he was done, he waved the slave away. The door opened and shut, and Danarius smirked when the three of them were suddenly left alone. Anders shifted where he sat, uncomfortable.

“As per the terms of your prize, you now belong to Anders, and by extension, me. You will fill the part of being Anders' personal slave and bodyguard. You will be trained in the art of combat, including swordplay, archery, sabotage and subterfuge, among other things. You will also be disciplined to be a proper slave, not a farmhand as your last master had you be. You will remain with Anders at all times, especially when he is outside of the estate, and will ensure no bodily harm comes to him, lest you be punished tenfold for the damage done. You are to do everything he commands of you to the fullest extent, but any command _I_ give will reign superior. If he tells you to harm him in any way, you are to refuse. If he attempts to run away—as he so often does—you will capture him. Any instance he is not within the estate without my knowledge, you are to view it as him running or having been kidnapped. Do you understand so far?”

“Yes, Master.” Leto replied, suddenly feeling as though he should be on his knees, not in a chair. He kept his head down and his hands visible, however, and that seemed enough to appease Danarius, who leaned back in the couch once again.

“I have also promised the Champion a weapon twice my weight in gold and even more so powerful. It can only be given to you through a very lengthy and... demanding procedure, one I am certain you will have no qualms against?”

“I am yours to do with as you wish, Master.” Leto said dutifully, making Danarius chuckle and Anders shift uncomfortably once more.

“Perfect. Then I shall waste no time. Anders, you will be needed as well. This procedure can render our newest slave useless if we haven't a purpose for him to focus on.”

“Purpose?” Anders questioned, but he was standing alongside Danarius, and soon Leto realized he had to be standing too. Danarius and Anders took the front, leading Leto out of the room and through the estate, heading down towards the cellar.

“His mind will be fickle and broken in the midst of the procedure. It will be important to embed your image into it when it is most vulnerable, to ensure his loyalty and devotion to you and only you.” Danarius explained carelessly, waving a hand around as they walked.

“You are to torture him?” Anders questioned, stopping and making Leto nearly run into him, but the elf stopped just in time. “No. I will not allow this.”

“It is not torture, my boy. If he wishes to wield the weapon I am presenting to him, he must undergo a surgery of sorts. You frolicked about with a healer before. You know only through pain can one reach salvation.” Danarius smirked, then added, “Besides, its hardly your choice, Anders. He has won the Games, and I will not go back on my word. I shall give him the weapon. If he accepts it or not, that is up to his will and his body to decide.”

“Then he won't accept it! I won't let him accept it!” Anders declared, and Leto actually frowned at him, though he didn't say anything in his own defense, “Just teach him swordplay and subterfuge and we'll call it even!”

“Anders, my sweet, foolish boy, this is merely one of many trials your new body guard will have to go through in order to protect you! You cant expect me to go soft on the very man with your life in his hands!” Danarius cried, sounding as if he were talking about Anders’ teachers and not a slave he was about to possibly torture.

“He has already proven himself in the Games!” Anders argued back, and Leto frowned and shuffled his feet.

“Bah! You weak-hearted child!” Danarius scoffed, waving a hand at Anders as if he could silence him that way, “You are impossible to talk to! If you do not wish to participate, then fine, but I must proceed with the procedure before it begins to interfere with the rest of my schedule! Slave, follow!”

“No, Leto, don’t!” Anders shouted, and Leto staggered to a stop before he glanced between the two of them, looking lost. Danarius glared hard at both Leto and his own son, irritated at Anders’ rebellion, and he looked right at Leto.

“Slave, grab Anders and drag him with us. He just revoked his right to come along willingly.” Danarius demanded, and Leto felt his heart clench, especially at the exasperated look Anders gave him. When he didn’t act quick enough, Danarius scowled and spat a curse underneath his breath, bringing his hand up and clenching it in the air. Leto’s entire body jolted at first, his back going stiff as if someone had reached in and grabbed him by his spine. It definitely felt like it, too, Leto’s nerves erupted in a burning pain, rolling up and down his torso like crashing waves on the shore. He barely let out a scream before he was suddenly released, and he collapsed onto the ground, gasping and coughing in residual pain.

“Leto!” Anders had cried, but Leto didn’t react instantly. His legs were shaking too much for him to try and right himself. Suddenly, Leto was wondering if this was worse than ten lashings with the cane. He wondered if it was _worth_ it.

“On your feet, elf.” Danarius hissed, and Leto felt his limbs moving far before his mind registered it. When he was upright, Danarius pointed expectantly at Anders, who flinched back from his father. Leto swallowed thickly, but did as told, and he grabbed Anders by his wrists, yanking them around his back before he used his free hand to grab a fistful of hair. He pushed Anders forward, making the mage stumble before he complied, and Danarius resumed leading them to the basement.

As they went down the winding staircase, Leto slowed just the slightest bit, and when he was sure Danarius wouldn’t hear him, he whispered into Anders ear, “I’m sorry, Master…”

Anders squirmed in his grip, but a few steps down and the mage sighed. He wriggled his arms until one hand managed to slip into Leto’s, and a pulse of healing magic was sent into the elf. Forgiven, Leto thought the mage meant. He smiled a little, and continued to walk them forward.

When they reached the cellar, they found a long stone table waiting for them, runes and hexes inscribed into the surface of it, and trenches burrowed along the edges, to be used to funnel liquid off the table from the bottom corner where a bucket waited. A small wooden chair sat in the corner beside a desk, covered with notes and vials and other various equipment. Hadriana was there as well, her raven hair yanked back out of her scowling face.

“There is rope. Tie Anders down to the chair.” Danarius commanded, and Leto pushed Anders towards the chair, grabbing the rope on the way. He shoved him into the chair, tied him up loosely at first, but then he tightened his bonds when Danarius set a glare on him. With Anders out of the way, Danarius set his hands on his hips and said to Leto, “Undress and get on the table.”

Leto swallowed thickly, but he nodded and began to do as told. He shucked off his tunic first, noticing Hadriana’s eyes on him, then he turned his back to her and tugged down his pants, only to realize he was baring everything to Anders now. Well, he thought he would rather it be Anders than that girl.

When naked, Leto climbed onto the stone. His skin jumped at the sudden cold contact, but he forced himself down and settled anxiously upon it. One hand covered his indecency, the other lay flat on the table, but it seemed it wasn’t to be that way for long.

Danarius and Hadriana began to tie Leto down onto the table, starting with his ankles, which were spread to either corner, then his wrists, thrown out perpendicular to his body. Leto half wished he had a towel or a blanket or even his small clothes to cover himself, but both Danarius and Hadriana were treating his nudity purely clinical, so Leto did his best to just get used to it. Anders sat silently in his seat, though he would jerk and struggle every few minutes.

“Grab the knife.” Danarius told Hadriana, who nodded obediently and ran off, retrieving a ceremonial dagger and handing it to her master. Blade in hand, Danarius looked Leto one last time in the eye, and he smiled genuinely at him.

“Congratulations,” he told him, his voice smug and almost sarcastic, “But do try to keep still. Hadriana.”

The girl cut into the palm of her hand with her own knife, her blood dripping down onto Leto’s torso, then running off his sides and onto the table. The hexes and runes sucked up the blood, absorbing its energy and began to emit a faint red glow that felt warm on Leto’s back. Danarius hummed, watching the table brighten, and he brought the tip of the dagger down on Leto’s chest, stroking his skin just enough to make his nerves jolt.

“I’ve thought a lot about the design,” he said to no one in particular, or at least Leto thought. He surely wouldn’t have been talking to him. “I at first wanted to do a Dragon, but Hadriana thought it was… inappropriate.”

Then Danarius looked over his shoulder , and Leto lifted his head a little and realized he had been talking to Anders, who looked pale and upset. “Then I recalled your little healer tryst, and I thought to myself, ‘what would be more ironic? Inscribing the chant into his skin or adorning him with every entropic rune I could think of?' I even thought it would be rather funny if I burned the Mark of Tranquility upon his forehead, but then I thought twice about it. It would merely send across the wrong message, don't you think?”

“You leave Karl out of this!” Anders hissed out, his face immediately going red, “This has _nothing_ to do with him! This isn't a punishment, father!”

“Isn't it?” Danarius replied with a sneer, and with a snap of his fingers, Hadriana reached up and grabbed Leto by the hair, yanking his head down and all but slamming it against the stone. Leto yelped and groaned, blinking away stars that appeared in his vision, and then Danarius' dagger was upon him, pressed to the center of his forehead and digging in. Leto gasped and squirmed, but Hadriana held him still with an iron grip. Blood began to bead where the dagger cut, and it dripped down his forehead and onto the stone table, making the glowing hexes buzz as they shined brighter. The blade lifted right after, only to dig in again, slightly above it, then again, right beside the second mark. When Leto let out a bark of pain, Anders cried out himself.

“Stop it! Just stop! You can't honestly be punishing me for a crush I had two years ago! Karl is dead! Isn't that enough?!” Anders begged, tugging harder against the ropes binding him to the chair, but they didn't give. Leto did them up wonderfully.

“You're heart bleeds too heavily for those who are below you,” Danarius was suddenly saying, pulling the dagger away and pointing at Anders with it, “This is going to be as much a test of your compassion as it is a test of his resilience. You will _never_ become Archon if you stop and bend at the knee to heal every sick and needing elf child! I will make you see these creatures as what they truly are: subservient and subhuman!”

“It's okay, Master. I can handle it,” Leto found himself saying, and Hadriana snorted in laughter at him. Danarius whirled and stared Leto down, surprised himself, but then his expression turned cold and he gripped the dagger tighter.

“How pitiful, that his elf is more compliant than my own son.” Danarius spat out, glaring at Anders, and he resumed his procedure, using the tip of the blade to cut right below Leto's bottom lip. Hadriana held his head still once again, even as Leto gasped and shuddered in pain. Anders cried out again for Danarius to stop, but the man ignored him this time, continuing to cut and puncture the elf's face until he had a design, stopping just below his jaw line.

Leto's face was dripping with blood, all of it running down his cheeks and neck until it dripped upon the table. The glyphs were beginning to pulse with power, now, the heat making Leto begin to sweat.

“Continuing my story,” Danarius said as he paused, wiping the dagger with a towel as Hadriana pushed at Leto's face, forcing more blood to drip and making him cry in pain, “I struggled to decide on a design to etch into your slave's skin. I was at a loss... and then you pointed out the elf in the midst of battle. I doubted he would win, like I said, but then I began to wonder.” He looked at Anders, who was as pale as a sheet, and he grinned, “ _Vallaslin_. The perfect way to show that this elf is something to be reckoned with, even to us humans! And throughout the week, I studied the art of it, drew out a few examples, and finally, _finally_ , I decided on one last design, inspired by the very art the Dalish carve upon themselves.... With a touch of Tevinter influence, of course. Hadriana, the lyrium.”

Anders was taken off guard by that. Lyrium? What did his father need with lyrium? He hadn't even begun whatever ritual he was planning to do! Perhaps it would be a lengthy one, and he merely didn't want to step away from his work to fetch the bottle. Bottles, Anders corrected himself mentally, as Hadriana carried over three large glass jars filled with lyrium. A bit much, Anders thought, but he wasn't prepared at all when Hadriana set the three down on the stone table, then _opened_ one.

All three of them gasped as their magic reacted to the burst of raw lyrium. Hadriana slumped forward, as if she was going to faint. Anders trembled in his seat, his heart beginning to race in suspicion, and Danarius grinned, wide and beastly. He grabbed a needle attached to a glass vial from his desk, then filled the vial with the raw lyrium. He capped it off with the needle, tapped the bit a few times, then regarded Leto with a smirk.

“Usually during the ritual of acquiring one's _Vallaslin_ , if the elf shouts or cries in pain, the ritual is stopped and put on hold until the elf can endure. This process could take weeks. Months, in fact. If I recall your legends correctly, it took a very famous ancestor of yours centuries to acquire theirs. Sadly, I just don't have the time or patience to stop every time you're in pain.” He reached out and patted Leto's cheek roughly, making the shivering elf wince and jolt in pain, and leaving behind a smudge of blood on Danarius' hand. “Now comes the Tevinter influence.”

“Wait,” Anders gasped, and Danarius shot him a cruel smirk before he began to lower the needle towards Leto's skin, the tip of it just brushing the very first mark Danarius laid—the three dots set in a triangle upon Leto's forehead. “Stop! Father, stop it!” Anders tried again, jerking the chair forward to try and get in kicking-distance of his father, but a force spell from Hadriana sent Anders and his chair skittering back and slamming against the wall. Moments later and Leto was screaming in pain, head clutched in Hadriana's hands to keep him from twisting away, and needle pressed right into the incision, the lyrium being emptied into each separate wound. The lyrium melted into Leto's skin like a poison, making first the injury burn, and then the rest of his head throbbed. He could feel the liquid seeping past the skin, past the cuts, and burning into his skull. His body jolted when the needle returned at his chin, filling in the rest of the lines on his face.

When Danarius got to his jaw, the taste of lyrium overwhelmed the elf, and he jerked and hacked desperately, trying to get it out of his senses. His eyes were beginning to cloud over, his mind emptying to make room for the all-consuming pain. He thought for a moment that he would vomit, but Hadriana cast a spell that forced his gag reflex to vanish and paralyzed his throat. His vocal chords still grated, though, and he let out a half-gurgling scream as Danarius finished applying lyrium to the wounds etched into his face.

“Heal him,” Danarius commanded his son, waving a hand at him and forcing the ropes to unravel. Anders quickly stood, but his legs gave out a moment later and he crumpled to the ground, his entire body trembling. Danarius' face twisted in embarrassment, and he stomped towards his son, grabbing him by the arms and all but throwing him towards the stone table were Leto lay.

Up close, Anders was able to see the lyrium mixing with the elf's blood. The glowing blue liquid glittered as it settled in the cuts dug into his face, swirling designs a mockery of _Vallaslin_ , and it made Anders' stomach roll. He lifted a hand anyways and began to heal him, but the lyrium stayed put, and Anders was forced to stitch the skin over it, sealing it into Leto's face. The blue glow didn't dim once Leto's skin stitched together over it, shining through the epidermis and giving Leto a ghostly look.

As Anders finished up the spell, Leto's eyes slowly blinked open, and they rolled over Anders, only half aware of his actual presence. He opened his mouth to say something, but Danarius had already taken up his knife and began to cut just underneath Leto's jawline, dragging the blade down his throat and making the elf cry out as pain bloomed within again. Anders' skin crawled at the noise of flesh ripping and Leto screaming, and he jolted a hand out to grab Danarius' wrist, to stop him from this madness, but Hadriana threw him back with a wave of her hand and a spell, grinning when Anders' head cracked against the wall, black dots and white pinpricks dancing across Anders' vision as his mind dealt with the sudden abuse.

His head felt scrambled, and when he finally regained control of his arms, he touched the back of his head and felt blood. The world around him was muddled and the noises came through as if he were underwater. He slowly healed up the wound on his head, but his mind still felt incoherent, and his eyes struggled to focus. He wished he had Karl there with him. The man would know exactly what was wrong with him and would show him how to fix it.

Another muffled sob broke through to Anders, and his dazed eyes jumped up to the stone table, where he could see Leto's limbs twitching and struggling, his father standing over him with the dagger. Hadriana had her hands on Leto's shoulders now, keeping him trapped against the table as more designs were cut into his skin. Distantly, he could hear Danarius talking, be it commands to Hadriana or snide remarks to Leto, Anders wasn't sure. He tried to get back up to his feet, aware that he needed this to stop, needed to make it stop, but his legs were like jelly and every time he stood up too far, his vision would go black and he would be slumping against the floor again.

Anders must have fallen unconscious for a time, because when he opened his eyes again, he saw Hadriana kneeling in front of him, a scowl on her face and a fresh bruise on her cheekbone, slowly darkening from what must have been a strike of hand. She was using a weak healing spell on him, something meant for scrapes and bruises, not trauma to the head, but Anders quickly put two and two together. They needed him, and Hadriana's attack on him had been unwanted.

He pushed her hands away and struggled up to his feet, relieved that he didn't pass out like before. Danarius regarded him with a frown, then gestured at the trembling elf on the table. His neck and shoulders were now covered in lines of lyrium, stopping just above his bicep.

“How far do you plan to go with this, father?” Anders asked in a thick voice as he shuffled towards the table, summoning up his own magic, much stronger than Hadriana's, and began to sew his skin shut over the glowing lines. Leto shuddered and his eyes rolled in the back of his head, but after a few blinks, he turned his gaze upon Anders once more, something registering in his mind. Anders couldn't tell what, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to know, either.

“Ideally, the lyrium will cover every limb and the expanse of his back, though I am partial to adding some to his chest as well. I think it will look gorgeous spread out all over him, don't you?” Danarius grinned, splaying a hand on Leto's chest, and he all but purred out, “You should be the one to decide, my boy. You are the one infatuated with him, after all.”

Anders glared at Danarius, finishing up the last touches of magic, and then he pulled away, shaking his head, “And what if I refuse to assist you any more? I will not heal him. If you continue this, he will perish!”

“And who's loss will that be? Certainly not mine. I never wanted this elf to be your guard anyways! Besides, I have Hadriana here to assist me with the rest of the ritual, though her magic is fickle at best.” Hadriana scowled at the insult, glaring at Danarius only briefly before he shot her a disappointed look, and she turned her head away from him, “And I'd rather not have the elf impress onto her. You see, I have made quite the discovery, Anders. I wondered to myself what made Healers so strong, specifically Spirit Healers, which your cherished Karl had been. I had wondered why they seemed immune to the rage and vitriol natural in a creature caught in pain, looking to survive despite the offer of help. In my search, I've come across a handful of rather interesting experiments regarding the very subject. Do you know what I found?”

“I'm certain you're about to tell me,” Anders bit out, glancing down again when Leto let out a breath, his body still quaking in the aftershock. The lyrium must still be burning him...

“In the throes of pain, when man has been broken down to sheer instinct and faced with death, he will lash out. In this state of panic and uncertainty, when the magic of a healer is cast upon the victim, the magic will influence a bond between mage and man, strong enough to quell his rage, fragile enough to break once the man has reached peace.” Danarius took up the dagger once more, and Anders felt his heart sink as he position the tip on one of Leto's outstretched arms. The elf's eyes opened, already aware of what was about to come, and suddenly he was looking to Anders, green eyes wide and dilated, tears still streaming down his face.

“Master,” He croaked, but Danarius dug in the blade and Leto's mind emptied once more, his cries filling the basement as Danarius trailed the knife down his bicep, around his elbow, and across his forearm. He didn't carve into the palm of his hand, but the back of it instead, and he trailed the blade to the very tips of his fingers as well, taking care with the delicate design.

“Take this experiment and repeat it constantly on the victim, pairing him with the Healer to continually create and enforce this bond, and you find yourself with an impossibly loyal slave—or at least, that's the theory.” Danarius ended his spiel just as he finished Leto's arm, but the true pain hadn't come yet. The true pain came when Danarius filled the glass vial, topped with a needle, and began the injections of lyrium directly into the wounds. Leto's entire body jolted and he cried out, suffering, and the other lines of lyrium already embedded within him flashed brightly, reacting to his trauma. Anders had half a mind to cast a healing spell already, but Hadriana cast a Dispel on him and Anders felt his magic collapse under the weight of it.

“Now, now, if you heal him too early, the bonds will never be as strong as I need them to be,” Danarius scolded lightly, as if he merely caught Anders with his hand in the cookie jar, and he waved the vial of lyrium at him in lieu of his finger. Anders grimaced at him and stumbled away from the scene, wishing his father didn't drag him down here, wishing Leto didn't have to go through this pain.

The process was long and arduous, testing not only Anders' magical endurance but his emotional strength as well. After each round of cutting and lyrium, Anders would heal the elf, and each time Leto's eyes would roll up and look at Anders, an awed, reverent look in his eyes slowly growing, as if Leto were in hell and Anders was the Maker himself. The longer the procedure went on, the more Anders could see Leto losing himself to the pain. At the beginning, Leto had at least blinked or turned his head when Anders whispered out his name. Now, he merely laid there, screaming and sobbing and begging for the pain to stop.

The worst part for Anders was when his father, in a gesture of pure depravity and perverse enjoyment, began to carve the same lilting lines along the shaft of Leto's dick, embedding even those with pulsing lyrium. Anders was forced to heal them, his hand coming into contact with the flesh, and his face burst into flames when Leto actually moaned, though it was still lined with pain and grief and brokenness. Hadriana began to laugh and Danarius was still smirking, but Anders felt wholly ashamed, and when he was done healing him, he tore away and scurried to the corner of the room, as if he could banish from his mind what he had just done.

Anders didn't think it was going to end, and if it did, he was sure the elf would be dead by then. Leto had been turned onto his stomach in the middle of the procedure so that his father could get to his back, but his cries had only grown in strength now that the tender flesh on his stomach was being pressed upon, along with the new cuts and burns on his back. Danarius called Anders over for the final touch of healing magic, and as Anders soothed the pain, Leto's eyes opened for one more time, looking up at Anders with that same touch of devotion.

“My P-Prince...” Leto whispered in a hoarse voice, and Anders felt shame tugging at his heart.

“Shush... It'll be okay.” Anders consoled him, but the elf continued to stare at him for a moment longer before he gave himself over to the Fade. As he slept, Anders stepped away, feeling sick and distraught by everything he had just witnessed. The room smelled of blood and lyrium, the table covered in Leto's blood, dripping down into the bucket situated at the corner of the table.

“I shall take the elf for now. I will train him to be a slave, put him in lessons with the best warriors and rogues in Thedas. He will be returned to you within a month, but he will continue to occupy the small room beside yours. Do you understand?” Danarius was saying, wiping off the blade as Hadriana untied the elf from the table, her face pinched in disgust.

“Yes, father,” Anders replied in an empty voice, trembling still as Leto's cries echoed in his mind.

“Good. Go on, then. Your usual entourage will be awaiting you.” Danarius excused Anders, and the mage scurried away, running from the room and up the stairs, not stopping until he got to his room, ducking into his bed despite the concern from his bodyguards. He sobbed into his pillow, feeling ashamed and guilty, as if he had been the one to cut into Leto's skin. He had convinced the elf to win the Games, helped him come out on top as victor, fought with him against the demons in the final match... if he had known what his father had planned, he would have rather killed the elf himself if he couldn't manage to help the elf run away.

Anders tried to remind himself that it had not been he to inflict such torture on his elf, but his father and Hadriana. He felt his anger towards them grow, but he could do nothing about it now. Once Leto was in his hands, maybe he could attempt to remedy it, make amends for the torture he allowed the elf to endure. It would only be right, after all…

Anders remained in his room for the majority of the first day after the procedure. He didn’t stir even when a slave brought in breakfast, nor did he move when lunch was brought soon after. He remained in his bed until he was summoned to the dining hall for dinner, and only then did he pick himself up and dress himself in fresh robes. He made his way to the dining hall in a morose mood, his bodyguard following after him, and when he arrived, he was greeted not only by his father, but by Leto kneeling beside what was to be Anders’ chair, his eyes downcast and his skin still looking swollen and irritated in places. His body still trembled in pain, and as Anders approached, he sent a weak healing spell towards the slave, much to his father’s chagrin.

“Anders,” Danarius said, ignoring the healing magic and gesturing for his son to sit, which he did, “This will be your new slave and bodyguard. Do forgive him for how he acts currently, he is still undergoing some training…”

“I am aware, father.” Anders replied coldly, his brows furrowing in confusion. Why was he speaking this way? It was as if he assumed Anders dim-witted, “We spoke of this already. Get to the point.”

Danarius scowled and Leto’s ears twitched, amused, but otherwise he didn’t react. The magister shifted in his seat, then sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, “Slave, introduce yourself.”

“I already know—“ Anders began, but he fell quiet when Leto stood and gave Anders a deep bow, beginning to speak in a voice still raw and scratchy.

“My Prince, I am Fenris, your loyal servant and guard. Your life shall be in my hands for as long as I am alive. Any pain done to you shall be echoed unto me tenfold. I live, breathe, and will die, all for your cause, Master—“ he looked up, meeting Anders’ gaze, and Leto fell quiet, his eyes wide and, oddly enough, adoring. Anders shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Danarius began to grin.

“And so my theory holds,” Danarius murmured, and the sound of his voice snapped Leto out of his reverie. He dropped his eyes to the floor again, but his cheeks and ears were flushed red.

“Fenris,” Anders said, and the elf’s ears twitched, the only indication that he was listening. Anders looked to Danarius, “ _Fenris?_ ”

“Ah, yes, perhaps I should explain…” Danarius smirked, “We are done with you, Fenris. Kneel.” Fenris bowed once again and knelt, keeping his head down, though his ears continued to twitch. Thinking he was still in pain, Anders discreetly tugged his foot from his slipper and pressed his toes against Fenris’ thigh, channeling more healing magic through that, though it was dulled from the unused limb. Fenris flinched at first, and the lyrium lines immediately surrounding where Anders was touching him fluttered with light.

“The procedure which Fenris so bravely persevered through seems to have erased most of his memories before yesterday, if not all of them. To commemorate his new birth into being the perfect slave for you, I granted him a new name, which he should be oh so grateful for.”

“I am, Magister. I am honored to receive your many gifts. Most of all the gift of guarding and protecting my Prince.” Fenris said dutifully, and Anders flinched at the title. It sounded… weird coming from him. Too serious. Too deep in meaning.

“Look at him, he hardly needs any training. He is already so devoted to you.” Danarius grinned, cocky as he all but congratulated himself. Anders could have gagged at the scene. Fenris’ ears twitched and he smiled to himself, far too pleased with Danarius’ praise.

“I can’t do this.” Anders announced, shoving his chair back and standing, “I’ll be in my bedchambers.”

“So be it. Fenris, you are to report to Anders every night after your lessons. Do you understand?” Danarius commanded, looking at the still kneeling elf.

“Yes, Master.” He replied, and Anders slammed the dining hall’s door shut behind him. He angrily stomped his way to his room, throwing himself back down onto his bed which was already beginning to smell too heavily of himself for Anders’ comfort. He tossed and turned, too irritated to get up, too irritated to sleep. He didn’t even consider removing himself from his bed until a light rapping came upon his door.

“Enter,” he called, sitting up now. Fenris pushed the door open and stepped inside, his eyes downcast and a frown on his lips.

“I have returned from my lessons, My Prince. Shall I retire to my chambers?” he asked delicately. Anders made a face, half disgust, half distraught, but his answer was certain.

“No, Fenris. You are to stay with me each night until I sleep. Only then will you retire to your chambers.” He commanded, and Fenris’ ears twitched, perhaps in delight, perhaps in annoyance. It was hard to tell past that stone cold expression on his face.

“But I—“ Fenris began to speak, and Anders’ brows rose in surprise. Was he about to show disobedience? Refuse Anders' command to stay? The thought excited Anders more than it should have, but he was left disappointed when Fenris caught himself and sighed, “Yes, my Prince.” The elf closed the door behind him and stepped further into the room, kneeling beside Anders’ bed and keeping his head down. Anders watched him for a good minute before he clicked his tongue and grabbed the elf by the forearm. He didn’t miss the way the elf gasped in pain as he was tugged up ans onto the bed.

With the both of them sitting on Anders’ bed, Fenris began to grow anxious. His eyes darted around the room, eager for something else to do that impede upon Anders' space on his bed, but the mage reached forward and grabbed Fenris' hands, forcing them to lock gazes.

“Tell me truthfully, Fenris,” Anders demanded, his voice stern. Fenris swallowed thickly, his green eyes wide, the pupil pin-pricked. He was rigid as Anders held him still, “You cannot remember anything? Nothing from before the procedure?”

“I remember nothing,” Fenris said with a note of pride, a smile appearing on his lips, but that faded when he realized this was not the answer Anders wanted. He shifted on the mattress, even more uncomfortable, and he lowered his gaze to the sheets, “My first memory is of pain. Of Master's hands upon me, a blade digging into me. My blood escaped me, I could see it running down my limbs. The room was dark, blurry. A woman's hands upon my face. And then...” He looked up at Anders again, his face flushed with red, his ears twitching, “You, My Prince. Rescuing me from the pain. Stepping into the darkness and enveloping me with your magic... It was bliss. I was reborn. My life from before is nothing now that I have my true purpose, My Prince.”

“Your true purpose?” Anders nearly spat. How could this be the same elf he had seen in the Games? The same one that struggled to remember his place below Anders, the one who promised to win the Games for Anders' sake? This elf and the elf from before were two entirely different people, merely with the same face... Minus the lyrium tattoos.

“My purpose to serve you faithfully. To give my life for yours. To be your weapon. Your Flame.” Fenris' hands clutched Anders' tightly, his eyes sparkling as he said the words. He truly believed in this purpose, this bullshit Danarius must have fed him. With nothing left of himself, this ideal and the image of Anders created a new creature within Leto's vacated shell. This was not the same elf at all. This was merely a shadow of him, a lost soul within a second-hand body. Fenris may have been born, but Leto had perished that day on the stone table.

And no one would weep for him but Anders, who felt all of his anger and guilt and contempt burst from him in the form of hot tears that ran down his cheeks. He trembled, swallowed back a sob, then broke down completely, covering his mouth with one hand and hugging himself with the other. This sudden show of emotion confused the elf. Fenris sat there, cross-legged on Anders' bed, and struggled to find words that would comfort his master.

“Please do not cry, My Prince... I-I apologize if I misspoke...” Fenris struggled, his hands shaking in muted panic. How was he to protect the Prince if it was himself who upset Anders? He couldn't remove the problem without leaving Anders defenseless. “Please be reassured, my life would have been irrelevant without you owning me. As your slave and your guard, I have meaning.”

Hearing such things only made Anders cry harder, his grief painful in his chest. How could he make the elf understand that none of this was good? That his lack of memory, his devotion to Anders, this strange adoration he had for him, that it had all been built upon lies, manipulation, and torture?

“Fenris...” Anders sobbed out, lifting a hand and brushing his fingers against his cheeks, but he could only cry more, hiccuping out in pain, “Leto... Poor Leto...”

“I only live to please you, My Prince... Does that not satisfy you?” Fenris asked, his green eyes wide and round and watery, constantly glancing towards the door as if Danarius would show with punishment for the elf making Anders cry. Anders realized it was probably a reasonable fear. He reached across his bed and wrapped his arms around Fenris, pulling him to his chest and holding him tightly. Fenris stiffened in his hold, but when he realized nothing more would happen than the Prince sobbing against his shoulder and wetting his drab grey tunic, he began to relax, even going so far as to settle his hands on Anders' biceps.

“It does not,” Anders whimpered against Fenris' shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut, “It only makes it hurt more...”

“You are... in pain?” Fenris ventured. Anders shook his head no, and Fenris pressed his fingers against Anders' arms, “You are... distraught.”

When Anders nodded mutely, Fenris sighed. His hands hesitantly roamed further up Anders' arms, over his shoulders, then linked together behind Anders' back. He held the Prince tightly, earning a shuddering breath, and he whispered, “Command me, My Prince. Tell me how to help...”

“I am not sure if you can. You are no longer you, after all.” Anders admitted, but Fenris only responded with confusion and a tighter hold.

“Allow me to try...” Fenris begged, closing his eyes as he held Anders. He felt him shudder with another sob, then Anders began to pull away. Fenris let him go with great reluctance.

“Go to your chambers. Leave me be.” Anders commanded in a quiet voice. Fenris' brow furrowed, but he did not obey immediately. He was unsure if it was a good idea to leave Anders alone in this state, but his hesitance only irritated Anders further. The Prince began to shove at Fenris, effectively knocking him off of his bed and onto the floor, “I said, go!”

Fenris scrambled to his feet, a touch of panic in his eyes, but he saw the regret and the shame in Anders' face moments later. It was strange and different. Though he held no true memory of his life before the procedure, he couldn't help but feel as though such action followed by grief was odd. He hesitated once more, though his heart was pounding in his chest, and when Anders fixed a glare on the elf, he merely dropped to his knees and bowed his head.

“You are a terrible slave!” Anders hissed, and Fenris took the insult quietly.

“I shall retire to my chambers, My Prince,” Fenris said softly, doubling over until his forehead and hands pressed to the carpeted floor. Anders didn't respond. Fenris stood after he deemed his apology lengthy enough, but he did not advance towards the door. Instead, he stepped towards Anders, leaned in, and kissed his hand.

Anders looked up at Fenris in shock, but Fenris ducked out of the room before he could be physically accosted for such a bold move. Anders didn't follow. Fenris was relieved by that.

He slipped into his chambers—which, truthfully, was little more than a large closet, fitted with a thin mattress and blanket, a chamberpot, and no windows. He reclined on the mattress, grunting when he was able to feel the stone underneath it, but he didn't complain aloud. He lied back and closed his eyes, letting his mind wander as his body relaxed. He wasn't entirely sure what possessed him to invade his Prince's space once more and kiss his hand, as if he were a suitor and not a slave, but he couldn't bring himself to regret the action. What did bring him regret was the idea that his mere existence seemed to be the source of Anders' bout of grief. He had no way to easily remedy that... but he could do what he could to make his presence a bit more bearable.

He would have to come up with a plan to either become so blended in with the background that Anders didn't notice him or grow so close to Anders the mage had no choice but to appreciate him. Well, as much as an Altus could appreciate a slave. He would not fool himself, Anders was far above him, and while Fenris felt a ridiculously strong impulse to fulfill his every command, be it violent or pleasurable, he knew there would be no way such a man would feel the same for his slave. Perhaps he would merely become his preferred slave, his favorite, doted on like one would a lap dog.

Plan in mind, Fenris decided he would begin to earn Anders' approval, and he allowed his mind to slip into the Fade.

The following week was trying, for both Fenris and Anders. Fenris' lessons in swordplay and servitude were difficult. Danarius was a demanding Master, vicious in his punishments and challenging to please. More than once, Fenris found himself limping to his next lessons with blood running down his bare back. His tutor in swordplay wasn't as hands-on in punishments, but he held no remorse for an injured slave. He pushed Fenris to his physical limits, forcing him to do laps in the courtyard, lift weights and heavy objects repetitively, and he even forced Fenris to scale the garden wall, though the elf didn't even make it half way. His lessons with a blade in hand hadn't even started, but his tutor was adamant in getting Fenris is the best physical shape he could get him before he offered him a weapon, wooden or not.

And after all of that, he couldn't even retire to his bedchambers without seeing to Anders. He rarely saw the Prince wandering the estate, but he figured that was merely Danarius' influence. He had said multiple times that he hadn't wanted Anders to interfere with Fenris' lessons. He thought the Prince a distraction, and Fenris wasn't sure if he would have been right or not. Personally, Fenris believed if Anders were there, he would be trying to do even better to excel. But he was a slave, and he did not voice his opinion, lest he wanted more wounds across his back and shoulders.

Each time he checked in with Anders in the Prince's chambers, Anders would take one look at him and immediately usher him to his bed. He would lay Fenris down on his stomach and heal the wounds on his back. Fenris wasn't sure how well of a job Anders did, if he had scarred at all from the process, but what he did know was after every wave of healing magic, Fenris' devotion to Anders only grew. His desire to keep the Prince safe turned into an obsession, and he all but begged Anders to keep the elf with him through the night so he could protect him near the end of the week. It wasn't his place, Fenris had told himself after Anders sent him away, but he couldn't help himself around his master. Unlike Master Danarius, Fenris felt as if he could speak to Anders, as if he were something more. Something important. It was a horrible misconception, and he was determined to ask Danarius to beat it out of him.

He had settled on his mattress on the sixth night, planning already to mention to Danarius the improper attitude he held around Anders the next morning, when he heard his chamber door open. It was far into the night, the light of the moon only illuminating the outline of the figure in Fenris' door. The elf propped himself up on his elbows, squinting his eyes, and then a mage light formed in the intruder's hand. A flickering white glow emitted outward, filling the small room and illuminating Anders' face. Fenris felt his heart race. Perhaps Anders would punish him himself for speaking out of turn before?

Anders stepped into the small room, and it immediately grew cramped as he closed the door behind him. He lifted his hand above his head, whispering a word, and the mage light stayed floating in the air, serving as a light for them to see each other.

“Maker, but this room is small,” Anders whispered, lowering himself onto Fenris' mattress in front of the elf, who merely pushed himself back to give the Prince more space, “You are comfortable here?”

“So long as I am within reach of you, I am, My Prince,” Fenris said dutifully, and immediately, Anders' face turned sour. Fenris' ears drooped, and he muttered, “You are displeased...”

“I am, but it's hardly your fault.” Anders sighed, shifting into a more comfortable sitting position on Fenris' mattress, “These things you say, my father tells you to say them, does he not?”

Fenris hesitated, but ultimately nodded his head, only to follow it up by a rushed, “But they are spoken with honesty, my Prince. I am devoted--”

“Stop. Please.” Anders sighed, holding a hand up to silence the elf. Fenris' mouth worked quietly for a moment, the words stuck in his throat then he clamped his mouth shut. Anders eyed him warily before saying, “I came to talk to you. Privately.”

Fenris' brow furrowed, and before he could stop himself, he asked, “And your bedchambers are not private?” He flushed in embarrassment when Anders shot him a smirk, and he meekly tacked on, “My Prince,” in a quiet voice.

“They are not. Guards sit outside my door and spies lurk near the windows. My father hexed the space just outside as well, which would go off were I to slip out.” Anders explained quietly, and when Fenris opened his mouth to ask just how Anders got out, then, the Prince said happily, “But there is no amount of money that would keep the guards outside my door from withstanding a sleeping spell. I've used it on them once or twice before. We have about forty minutes.”

Fenris nodded his head slowly, still confused, so he asked him, “What do you wish to speak to me about, My Prince?”

“I wanted to tell you about how you came to be here if you want to listen.” Anders said, settling his hands in his lap, “I know nothing of your life before, but I can at least give you that much.”

“I know how. Master told me already,” Fenris claimed, and at Anders' arched brow, Fenris lowered his head and recounted the memories Danarius shared with him, “There was a tournament of sorts. A Game he called it. I fought in it and won. My prize was you.”

Anders made a noise in the back of his throat, discontented with the information, and he shook his head, “I guess that's... a summary of what happened. But there is more to it. More that my father doesn't know. Will you listen?”

“As you wish, My Prince,” Fenris responded dutifully, and Anders sighed and rolled his eyes, but accepted that as consent.

“The Games was what they were called. This wasn't the first Game held, but it was the largest. My father was Game Master for the first time this year, and he planned for a week long festival. Truthfully, it ran for about four days. He and I sat in the Game Master's booth, and on the first day, I saw you in the throes of battle in the arena. Immediately I was taken by you. An elf, small and thin, fighting better than any man. I swooned—honestly!” Anders smiled, reaching across the way and shoving at Fenris, and the elf was taken by how playful the action was.

Still grinning, Anders continued, “I wanted you to win right away. Not just because you were strong and handsome, but because you were an elf and my father _hates_ elves.”

“A majority of his slaves are elves...” Fenris pointed out, and Anders chuckled and nodded.

“I know. He thinks their place is under a mage's foot, even if the elf has magical potential. So having one as my bodyguard? It would drive him absolutely mad!” Anders laughed again, and Fenris felt the tug of his lips as he enjoyed Anders' merriment. The mage continued.

“Well anyways, he and I ended up placing a bet on you. If you won, you get an extra boon. If you lost, I would have to learn blood magic.” Anders paled at the statement, then sighed, “I really didn't want to become a maleficar... so I cheated. After each day in the arena, I went to you and healed you up. You were... wary of my presence at first, but you didn't really put up a fight. You were so different from other slaves I had met, too. You were... _you_. Aware of yourself, aware of your surroundings. You forgot you were below me.” He saw Fenris look shocked and almost appalled, so Anders smiled and reassured him, “I _liked_ it. Your personality... it drew me to you even more. It made you stand out. It made me want you to guard me.”

Anders sighed and lowered his gaze, “We made a promise... You promised you wouldn't die and would win the Games. You promised you wouldn't just be my slave or my guard...”

“But that is what I am... What would you rather I be?” Fenris asked, eyes almost desperate. Anders smiled up at him, a small, sad smile.

“I want you to be my friend.”

Anders didn't stay much longer than that. They could hear the guard beginning to wake up, so Anders bid Fenris good night and slipped away, leaving Fenris to think about what Anders spoke to him about. It wasn't everything, Fenris was certain, but it was a lot more than Danarius gave him. And now he knew what Anders expected of him... a friend. It would be difficult, Fenris realized. They could only be familiar with one another in the privacy of Anders' room, and Fenris would constantly be under the scrutiny of Anders' friends and family. They wouldn't be able to go anywhere together as friends, only as Master and Slave, or Master and Guard. Any relationship they had would be a secret, hidden away from even the other house slaves...

It was a good thing Fenris liked a challenge. It seemed like Anders would, too, since he was the one who brought it up.

Unfortunately, Fenris' lessons in servitude and swordplay were too consuming for the elf to put much stock into creating a friendship with the mage. Whenever he checked in on Anders at the end of the day, it was brief. Anders saw he was tired, would heal him if he needed it, then would send him to his chambers to rest. Truthfully, Fenris was grateful for that. He would hate to falter during his lessons because he had stayed up too late tending to the mage, but a part of him was still upset that he rarely got a word from the man before he was bidding him good night. He wanted to make a better effort for Anders' sake, but it was always so hard what with the mage always staying in his room.

One night, while he laid on Anders' bed as the mage healed him, Fenris decided that if he were to be Anders' friend, he would have to tell him his desires without being prompted. Asking Anders to make himself more visible throughout the day was one such desire, but it was terrifying to let it slip past his lips.

Awkwardly, Fenris tucked his arms underneath his chin, staring at the headboard of Anders' bed. He allowed the soothing calm of his healing magic on the cane marks on his back to soothe him, that bond of devotion strengthen, and he borrowed the energy for his courage. “M-My Prince,” He began, and immediately Anders stopped healing. Fenris didn't want to look back to see what kind of expression Anders was giving him, but he felt one of his hands settle on the small of his back.

“Alright, that was unexpected,” Anders muttered, his confusion in his tone, “Yes, Fenris?”

Fenris cleared his throat. So far so good. No injuries yet... He took in a slow breath, then squeezed his eyes shut and said in one quick stream of words, “I have thought about what you said to me that night in my chambers and I... wish to be your friend as well. I fear my lessons keep my occupied—though I know they are to better myself for your sake—but I desire....” He swallowed thickly, feeling himself begin to sweat, the spot where Anders' hand rested on him tingling, “I d-desire... You stay in your room far too much, My Prince!”

Fenris pushed himself up and turned to look at Anders, completely serious, and Anders looked even more surprised by the conversation, “You must leave your chambers once in a while! I wish to... I'd like to... I desire...” He huffed, turning his head down, but then a hand was on his thigh and he turned his head back up to meet Anders' eyes. The golden brown irises sparkled in delight, and Fenris felt his heart flutter its way up his chest.

“Yes?” Anders prompted when he saw Fenris' mouth stop working, and the elf blinked away his daze.

“I desire you,” Fenris blurted, and his face turned red only moments later, “To see you! Around! I desire to s-see you!”

Anders laughed at him. Fenris immediately grew embarrassed and his ears drooped and burned red. His eyes shot down to his lap and he pulled himself into a ball, but Anders didn't let him get too far within himself before he was pushed at the elf's knees, forcing him to uncurl again. The Prince leaned forward, getting into Fenris' space, and he pressed his lips against the elf's. A few seconds passed, Fenris too shocked to try and return to sentiment, but when Anders pulled away, Fenris found himself following. Anders chuckled, low and divine, and he allowed Fenris to resume their kiss with a little more participation.

Anders placed his hands on Fenris' hips, tilting his head and prodding his rather dry lips with his tongue. Fenris made a noise in the back of his throat, confused at the action, so Anders decided this was enough for now and pulled away. He kept a hand on Fenris' hip to keep him from advancing again.

“My Prince?” Fenris breathed, and Anders huffed in amusement.

“I will see about roaming the estate a bit more,” He relented, giving Fenris a meaningful look, “If not for me, then for my friend.”

Fenris' eyes sparkled at the title, and a smile slowly stretched across his lips. “Friend,” He hummed, delighted, as if the word itself had a pleasant taste. Anders hummed in confirmation, grinning even more.

He slipped away from Anders' chambers a moment later, tucking himself away in his chambers with a light feeling in his chest. Reclining on his mattress, Fenris couldn't stop smiling. Even in such typical circumstances, Fenris found himself with a friend. In his own Master, no less... Fenris found himself feeling happy he had ended up in Danarius' estate as a slave, even if the Magister's hand was heavy with punishment and the training grueling. If it meant seeing Anders smiling at him like that again, it was well worth it.

The remainder of the month passed pleasantly. Anders took to reading his books in the same room that Fenris trained in, or even holding his lessons in windows where he could watch Fenris exercise in the courtyard. Danarius' punishments weaned the more Anders applied himself, which was a relief for Fenris. He was now able to train harder with his tutor, and swordplay was a very demanding subject.

That, and whenever he exercised, especially when he removed his tunic, he noticed Anders' eyes drifting his way. He enjoyed those moments and did what he could to make them happen more often. At the start of the new month, his tutor handed him a wooden sword and they began Fenris' true lessons.

As the month wore on, Anders began to confide in Fenris even more. Fenris' check-ins with Anders before he was to retire to his chambers turned into long nights whispering to one another on Anders' bed, and occasionally, Anders would reward him with kisses or intimate touches. Fenris enjoyed every moment of attention he was rewarded with, seeking them out just as eagerly as he sought out Anders' healing magic on his sore muscles.

As the third month came to a close, Fenris had learned some basic strategies with a sword, became quick and attentive as a slave, and his relationship with Anders was all but soaring. Danarius, as a reward, decided Anders should be given a day out on the town...

Protected by his brand new bodyguard.

Fenris was thrilled, but he schooled his face to a neutral gaze as he knelt beside Danarius' chair. Anders was ushered into the dining hall where brunch was set out on the long table, and Danarius greeted him with a call of his name and a raise of a wine glass.

“Anders! It's so good to see your with your nose out of a book,” Danarius grinned, and he gestured to a chair to his left. As Anders sat, Fenris stood from where he knelt beside Danarius, bowed to the Magister, then took the short distance to Anders' side and knelt, silent during the entire exchange. Danarius didn't say anything about it. Anders tried not to watch the elf.

“I have been studying a lot, recently. I decided it was high time I quit being morose and stubborn and resume my lessons.” Anders replied smoothly. He reached forward to serve himself food, but in moments, Fenris was back on his feet and he grabbed the tongs from the platter instead, serving Anders his food. With his plate full, Fenris set the tongs down and knelt once more. Anders blinked at the elf, confused.

“Pay him no mind, he is merely doing as taught.” Danarius said carelessly, waving a dismissive hand in the air, “I'm glad you're no longer being difficult. It was a pain dealing with your attitude ever since the Games.”

Anders blinked and turned to look at Danarius, replying almost sarcastically, “How traumatic it must have been for you.” The disapproving look he received from Danarius told him the words weren't appreciated. Anders turned his gaze to his food and began to eat. Fenris stayed quiet, his eyes downcast. His hands were hidden from Danarius by the table, that Fenris knew, and he used this obstruction to brush his knuckle against Anders' ankle. The Prince tapped his foot against Fenris' thigh in return.

“In lieu of your recent studious nature, I have decided to reward you with a much needed day off,” Danarius then announced, and Anders' gaze was upon his father once again, “Fenris needs real world training, and has already been tasked to accompany you into town. He will protect you well, or he will bear the consequences.”

Anders glanced at Fenris, but the elf remained unresponsive. Anders nudged his thigh again. Fenris brushed his knuckled against his ankle.

“What's the catch?” Anders questioned, squinting at his father, who chuckled at the accusation.

“There is none. The guards by the door have a purse of coin for you to spend in the marketplace. Fenris will acquire real-world training throughout the day. Hopefully, you will come back refreshed and excited to learn even more.” Danarius grinned, adding on perhaps an unneeded, “Win, win.”

Anders didn't look completely won over, Fenris noticed. Still, he accepted his father's offer with a wary, “Alright. I've been meaning to ask for new robes, anyways. When shall I leave?”

“Why, whenever you finish your meal, my son,” Danarius replied casually, scooping the last bite of his own serving into his mouth. Even as he chewed, Danarius stood from his seat and wiped his mouth clean, tossing the used napkin onto his plate. He stepped away from the table, heading towards the door all the while calling out over his shoulder, “I have work to tend to. The guards will let me know when you return.”

He left a moment later, and Fenris and Anders were alone in the dining hall. Anders picked up his fork and took the first bite, still staring at the door his father left through. Fenris stayed on his knees, his eyes downcast and his hands in his laps, though his ears twitched constantly, listening to every little sound in the rooms around them. Anders brushed Fenris' thigh with his foot. Fenris hesitated, then he gently wrapped a hand around Anders' ankle, brushing his thumb against the bone jutting out from the side.

“You understand that this is a test, right?” Anders mumbled as he continued to eat. Fenris' thumb stilled on his ankle as the elf thought about it. His lack of an immediate response, however, urged Anders to speak up once more. “We will not be alone. I'm never alone. He will be watching us.”

“I shall fulfill the task of protecting you today, Master. Let there be no doubt in your mind.” Fenris replied cautiously, not sure if Anders meant they were already being watched or if Danarius had intentionally planted his people in the public to try and attack Anders. “If a single hand is laid upon you, it will be the last thing they will touch.”

Anders snorted, pushing his food around on his plate now, and he peered down at Fenris, pressing his foot harder against his thigh, “Fenris. Look at me.”

Fenris swallowed nervously, but he tilted his head back, his eyes slowly rolling up to meet Anders' gaze. His ears twitched anxiously, his hand gripping Anders' ankle tightening. They stared at one another for a long moment, and Fenris only let out a relaxed breath when Anders smiled at him.

“The moment we step off the estate's grounds, the test will begin,” Anders warned him reaching down to cradle Fenris' face in his hands. The elf let out a breath at the touch, enjoying the sensation of warm fingers along his jawline, and he came willingly when Anders pulled him up. Now standing over the mage, Anders ran his hands down Fenris' neck and to his chest, rubbing it through his tunic, “It will not be easy for you. Are you sure you're prepared?”

“I have been prepared since the day I was born, My Prince.” Fenris breathed, trembling beneath the mage's touch, wishing he would do more. His lips suddenly felt much too cold, and he considered lowering himself to claim Anders', but it was a much too risky move to perform in the middle of the dining hall.

“Why don't we get a move on, then,” Anders smirked, leaving his half-eaten brunch on the table as he stood. Fenris nodded once, falling into step behind his Master as Anders left the dining hall and headed for the front door. They walked down multiple hallways, Fenris slowly realizing he had never ventured in this direction. He had always stayed towards the back of the estate, training in the courtyard outside or running between the slave chambers and the main floors.

Anders walked purposefully towards the front double doors, approaching the guards boldly and jutting out a hand to one of them. Fenris felt his skin jump at how assertive Anders was, afraid that his Master was going to offend these armed men. The guards glanced at one another, their eyes narrowed under their visors. Slowly, the confronted guard pulled a small cloth purse from his armor and dropped it into Anders' open palm. The mage smirked and tossed the purse back to Fenris, who fumbled to catch it.

“Master?” Fenris blurted out as he cradled the surprisingly heavy red purse, but Anders didn't respond, and instead he took the short walk to the other guard, stopping in front of him and holding out his hand once again. The guards shared another glance, confused, but Anders persisted, jerking his fingers in a 'give it' motion.

“Young Master, I don't--” The guard began to say, but Anders cut in with a sharp tone.

“Your blade.” He demanded, his eyes flickering down to the sword at the guard's hip.

“Excuse me?” The guard huffed, putting his hand on the hilt defensively.

“Your blade.” Anders repeated slowly, his brows raising, “If I'm to be leaving the estate, I expect my guard to be armed.”

The guard hesitated still, looking back at Fenris, who was cradling the purse like a child to his chest and watching the confrontation with wide, worried eyes. Obviously unimpressed, the guard tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword and regarded Anders once more.

“Surely you can't be serious. This is but a house slave! Where is your entourage?” The guard questioned, gesturing with his free hand at Fenris, who flinched back instinctively and clutched the purse tighter. Anders frowned deeply at him, obviously unimpressed, and Fenris' ears twitched back, ashamed.

“Are you questioning my father?” Anders asked haughtily, turning back to the guard and setting both hands on his hips, “Should I instead waste my time to go to his chambers and tell him that you refuse to arm my guard?” He stepped closer to the guard, and the man, though taller than Anders by a half foot, jerked back in a panic, “Should I tell him that you would rather I step out into the world without protection?”

“No, Master! I-I just—I mean--” He gestured once more at the elf, disbelieving, but Anders smacked his hand away and took another step forward, forcing the guard back against the wall.

“Hand over your blade, or I will have my elf take it from you.” Anders demanded loudly, earning a sputter from the guard.

“Just give him the sword!” The other guard hissed out, but Anders' sharp glance his way made him tense up once more and face forward. Certain that he wouldn't dig his nose into their conversation again, Anders turned back to the guard before him and stuck out his hand once again.

“I really don't want to wear out my guard before we even leave the estate. Give me the sword.” Anders ordered one last time. The guard took in a breath, his hand squeezing the hilt of his blade, and then he gave in. Unlatching the belt carrying his sword, he handed the whole set over to Anders, who grunted under the weight of the weapon. He was more used to staves of light woods or metals, but he didn't hesitate to pass the blade back to Fenris who balanced the purse in one hand while he took the belt with the other. With a little bit of shuffling, Fenris managed to tie the belt around his hip while holding the purse's strings by his teeth, then he tied the purse to the very same belt, making sure it was tight and wouldn't allow for an easy picking.

Now armed, Fenris felt a swell of confidence in his breast, though the blade he held was short and too light in his opinion. It was still comforting to know one had a good defense when one needed it.

“Much appreciated,” Anders said sarcastically, stepping around the guard and pushing the grand front doors open, assisted by a pulse of force magic. Fenris followed after, light-footed and quiet, keeping close to his Master but still staying behind.

Stepping out into the front of the estate, Fenris was greeted with a glorious fence, glittering silver in the morning sun. A gravel path lead them through rich greenery, carefully cultivated and maintained to a posh perfection. The walk to the open gate took enough time for Fenris to take it all in. He slowly turned, walking backwards as he looked up at the estate, the only home he has ever known, the only place he had ever seen. The outside was as beautiful as the rest of it, built with strong stone and gold-painted pillars. A chuckle behind him brought him back focus, and he spun back around, facing an amused Anders.

“You act like you've never walked outside.” Anders teased, tucking his hands into the pockets of his robes. Fenris' ears twitched, his eyes darting back once more.

“I haven't.” He reminded Anders, his voice low and careful, “Not that I remember, Master.”

Anders' smile weakened, his eyes lowering for a moment before they snapped forward again. They exited the gate and stepped onto a paved road, well-worn by past visitors and carriages. They were fifteen minutes from the city, a brief walk in the sparse nature left in the Imperium. Anders was used to the sights of thick trees and fat bushes, but Fenris took it all in with an awed stare.

“If you think this is impressive, we'll have to go to the theater one day. The things those mages can do are truly astounding.” Anders smirked, watching Fenris with a touch of adoration. He was like a newborn pup who had just been placed on grass.

“Surely they are not as impressive as you.” Fenris complimented Anders under his breath, and the mage sent him a sly look.

“Please. If I were to put on a show, we would have to fill three stadiums with all the people who would want to see me.” Anders said with a grin, looking over his shoulder at Fenris, “I wouldn't even have to cast a spell. They'd fill the arena with sovereigns just to see me shimmy.”

Fenris hummed at the idea, his brows raising as he imagined it. If he were honest, he didn't see why anyone _wouldn't_ want to pay to see Anders. He eyed his master quietly, wondering what sort of shimmy Anders was talking about. As he was so lost in thought, Anders caught him staring and he immediately stopped their walk to playfully shove at Fenris, knocking the elf off center.

“I see your mind working!” Anders accused with a coy smirk, “You're supposed to be guarding me, elf, not imagining me naked!”

“Naked?” Fenris blurted, his face immediately turning red. That wasn't at all what came to mind! But... now that it was uttered...

Fenris tilted his head and continued to stare at Anders, picturing a lean body with a light layer of muscles, with a spatter of freckles to match the ones across his nose. Anders continued to walk, tucking one of his hands into the pocket of his robes while the other dangled elegantly at his side. Fenris tilted his head the other way, watching how his robes swayed and brushed along the ground, swished around his legs, and hung off the swell of his hips. They were purely modest, covering the young mage from neck to ankle with no space for skin to show, not even at the wrist. Still, watching the man strut along made Fenris' skin feel hot and tingly.

“Master,” Fenris breathed out, wondering if Anders would gift him with just a touch, just a brush of his hand. Anders looked over his shoulder at his elf, a small smirk on his lips. The bastard was doing it on purpose.

“Patience, elf.” Anders cooed, facing straight again and lifting his chin, obviously loving the way he was making Fenris ache, “We have yet to reach the town.”

Fenris clenched his jaw tightly and faced forward, setting his hand on the hilt of his blade to try and ground himself. Tearing his mind from his Master, he tried to focus on the task at hand. He was here to protect this mage. He was here to make sure no one touched him. He was going to make sure Anders wasn't even so much as looked at wrong. Danarius would be watching them. He would know the moment they returned to the estate if Fenris had succeeded or failed. And the elf would not fail, not with Anders' well-being at stake.

“Fenris,” Anders was saying as they approached the first busy street into town, and the elf immediately stepped closer to his master, gripping the blade's hilt tightly in his hand. The mage glanced at him for a moment, then continued forward with his back straight, looking all the more like a regal Tevinter Altus to be reckoned with. Fenris stiffened as well, becoming more alert as the area became more populated.

Near the outskirts of town, they found themselves in the midst of slaves and errand boys out collecting groceries and merchandise for their masters. None were dangerous, Fenris immediately figured, and he slowly lowered his hand from his blade.

A group of three boys, no older than seven, burst out from around the corner, shouting in delight as they chased one another. Anders smiled their way and called out to them, immediately getting their attention. They swarmed the mage in delight, standing around his legs and talking all at once.

“One at a time, one at a time,” Anders bid them, pausing in the middle of the street and crouching down so he could look them in the eyes. Fenris frowned at the action, then quickly looked around, making sure no one was watching them too closely.

“Do the fire trick, Anders!” One boy was begging.

“Just this once! Just this one time!” Another joined in, reaching out to pull at Anders' sleeve.

“You said that last time,” Anders said wisely, nudging the boy playfully, making him giggle.

“Last time! We promise!” The third crossed pressed his palms together before him, giving the mage the best puppy eyes he could muster.

“Oh alright, alright!” Anders laughed, trying to sound put upon, but the smile on his face gave him away all too easily, “Stand back, then. I'll only do it this once!”

All three boys immediately leapt three paces back, expectant grins on their faces. Anders brought his hands up to his face, cupping them over his mouth. He took a deep breath through his nose, and, while keeping his gaze level with the three boys watching him, he slowly exhaled, allowing his hands to part just enough to let a stream of fire slip through.

All together, the boys gasped in delight. And with them, Fenris grunted in surprise. His lyrium brands came to life around the presence of Anders' magic, reacting to it in a way he had never experienced before. He was so used to the gentle ebbing of Anders' healing magic that this sharp tug made his skin pinch and sting. The rope of fire Anders held grew until it was nearly a yard long, then Anders manipulated the thing with magic, curling it around itself as if he were crafting a woven basket. Once the two ends touched, the rope flowed into a single ring that Anders skillfully spun around his wrist, twirling it about like an acrobat's hoop.

“Ready?” Anders asked, raising his brows at the boys standing before him. The one in the middle eagerly opened his hands, his eyes alight with determination. Anders grinned and, while still spinning the ring, held the flame out to the boy.

Fenris frowned as the boy reached out. Surely the fire was too much for him to handle. Even if he were a mage, he was young and unpracticed. If Anders lets go of the spell, the boy could end up hurting himself or those around him. Anders included.

“Master,” Fenris spoke up, but the man ignored him and continued to hold out the ring. Slowly, the boy's hands slid under the flames, and the ring flickered as it slowly transferred mana. Fenris felt panic swell in the base of his throat, so he stepped closer. His fingers twitched as he fought the urge to just snatch Anders from the foreseeable danger.

“Back off, elf!” One of the boys huffed, startling Fenris all over again as he was commanded by these human children. Anders still didn't even cast him a glance.

“That's it,” He was encouraging the boy trying to hold the flame, “Concentrate. Feel the life of the flame within your own heart. It is relying on you to survive. Don't let it burn out.”

“I have it... I have it...” The boy was whispering under his breath, eyes wide and hands shaking. Anders began to pull his hands away, and the ring of fire sputtered defiantly.

“Control it.” Anders instructed him, his own eyes twinkling in amusement as the child struggled to hold it steady, “You are its master.”

The boy was gritting his teeth now, his palms sweating and turning red from where the fire was beginning to overheat his skin. The ring began to swell in places and flicker in others.

“Master,” Fenris said again, putting a hand on Anders' shoulder, only to be shrugged off by the mage.

“Silence, Fenris,” Anders mumbled, turning his head just enough for the elf to know it was himself being spoken to. His eyes never left the child in front of him, even as the fire lost its circular shape and began to twist into a pyre.

“I'm losing it!” The boy gasped, and Anders lifted his own hands, helping the child guide the flames back to a more inebriated state.

“You almost had it,” Anders reassured him with a smile, but he took the ring back anyways, letting the boy drop his now burnt hands to blow cool air against pitifully. “Three seconds longer than last time, I'd say!”

“I still can't control it like you can. I can't even make a flame of my own like you can!” The boy complained, balling his red hands into fists, only to immediately release from the pain. Anders laughed despite it all, twirling the ring around his pointer finger carelessly.

“Fret not over it. You are young. You'll grow into it.” Anders grinned, then his brows shot up and his smile widened impossibly so, “Say, what about I lend you this ring, and you and your friends can play with it for as long as you keep it alive?”

“Really?” All three boys cried excitedly, while Fenris looked to his master in exasperation. That was hardly a good idea, leaving such a volatile element like fire in the hands of three adolescent boys. They were barely old enough to begin schooling!

“Sure! Go on now, chase it!” Anders chuckled, and he launched the ring like one would roll a hoop, and within seconds, the boys were running after it. The mage of the three of them sent out snaps of force magic to keep the thing rolling, and they vanished around the corner with their laughter echoing behind them.

As Anders stood straight, Fenris turned his worried gaze upon his master, and asked rather boldly, “Have you not thought of the consequences? Surely they will not be able to handle a spell so dangerous!”

Anders merely pouted at first, patting down his robes to ensure the dirt and dust from the cobblestone road they stood upon wouldn't stick. “Fenris, you have so little faith in me. The flame will dissipate the moment they grow tired of it. I've done it before, you know! With minimal damages.” He turned on his heel and resumed walking, forcing his elf to stumble after him with a shocked expression on his face.

“Minimal--?! They could burn down a shop!” Fenris claimed, getting a dirty look from those around him. He immediately pulled back the emotion in his voice, along with the volume, and added on, “Master, if those boys tell the authorities that _you_ gave them that fire, they could very well make a plea to Master Danarius for compensation! You know he will not be pleased!”

“Daddy has fixed a lot of problems for me. One burnt shop will be nothing in comparison.” Anders wrote Fenris' concerns off without even a flicker of guilt, and almost immediately after, his eye was caught by a nearby store, and he made a quick beeline for the door. “Come Fenris, I plan to spend that money Dad gave me today.”

Fenris forced himself to follow, though his legs felt heavy with the realization that his master truly didn't care if those boys got into trouble. As they entered the shop, which looked to sell little clay carved paperweights shaped as animals. Anders was examining a mabari the size of his hand.

Approaching the mage, Fenris said in a low voice, “My Prince, do you truly not care for their safety?”

“Enough of this, Fenris!” Anders sighed, putting the mabari figurine down with a bit of force, looking at his slave with a glare, “It's fine! It'll be fine!”

“It was a giant ring of fire!” Fenris blurted, following after Anders as he walked deeper into the shop.

“The boy knows magic. If he can't handle the flame, then it's his fault!” Anders claimed, and Fenris actually reached out to grab Anders, but the mage stopped him with a hard look. “Leave it be.” He said evenly, his tone dangerous. Fenris' hand hovered in the air only for a few seconds longer, the elf processing the cold glare aimed right at him. A noise at the back of the shop broke the tension, the shop keeper who had been watching the scene unfold merely clearing his throat. With a breath, Fenris stepped back from Anders and withdrew his hand, looking down at the floorboards in shame. What it must look like to have such a disobedient slave speaking to a mage like that in public... Surely, Anders was embarrassed.

The mage in question let out a forlorn sigh, but he took the issue no further and resumed perusing the store. Fenris followed him through the shop meekly, his head bowed and his hands fiddling with the blade hilt and the belt he wore.

As they drew closer to the shop keeper, Anders favoring a well-crafted dragon figurine that he carried with him as he looked, the man behind the counter began to smile at the mage. Anders pointedly ignored looking his way as he shopped, but Fenris didn't hesitate to give the man a once-over.

He was an older gentleman, his hands showing his craft more that his face did. Callouses covered them from fingertip to palm, made thick from handling the tools he used to carve into the wood and stone. His clothes were dusted with fine particles of his craft, dulling the deep red of his robes to a muted umber in places. He was thin, perhaps sacrificing a meal a day in order to pursue his artwork.

The man met Fenris' gaze and frowned. Fenris turned his eyes back down, though he gripped the hilt of his blade tighter. He took a step closer to his master, turning his gaze on the howling wolf Anders was running his fingers over.

“What a curious piece.” Anders muttered, picking it up and testing the weight, then he turned to Fenris, “Which is more attractive?” He asked, holding up the wolf and the dragon. Fenris gazed at both sculptures quietly for a moment, then turned back to the figurines left on the shelves.

“The wolf may be beautiful, and the dragon powerful, but neither encompass my master so truly as this beast does,” Fenris declared, reaching around Anders to pluck a similarly sized sculpture from the shelf. Anders' eyes lit up as his slave held the beast in his palm, and soon a wide smile cracked his face.

Laughing through his words, Anders accused, “Are you calling me catty?” He put down the dragon and the wolf and plucked the topaz encrusted cat from Fenris' grip. Holding it aloft to let the light glint off the orange stones, Anders inspected the figurine with a critical eye. His lips pursed in thought and he brought the statue closer, stroking the smooth marble head with his thumb.

“Doubt me?” Fenris asked in a whisper, catching Anders' attention. The man looked up at Fenris from underneath his lashes, a challenging smile on his lips.

“Perhaps. Why the cat?” Anders asked, stepping right into Fenris' space, practically daring the slave to submit. Fenris glanced at the shop keeper, seeing him watching them from the corner of his eye. Irritated by his wandering gaze, Anders pushed a finger against the elf's chin, forcing Fenris to come back to their conversation. “Tell me.” He demanded. Ignore him, Fenris heard.

Taking a short breath, Fenris met Anders' eyes and answered, “You are... regal. Elegant. Graceful in the way you hold yourself.” Anders hummed in delight, his gaze relaxing into an adoring stare. “You relent to your adventurous desires, and yet you know when it is more beneficial to be patient.”

Anders held the cat closer to his chest, looking down at the beast to try and hide the vibrant blush spreading across his cheeks. Fenris' eyes roamed Anders' almost shy expression eagerly, pride swelling in his breast for achieving such a reaction from this man. The urge to kiss him was becoming overwhelming. More than ever, Fenris wished they were back in the manor so he could sneak one or two from his master.

A touch of force magic had a figurine at the other side of the shop slipping from the shelf. Fenris flinched at the sound of stone and mineral shattering against the wood panel flooring, his eyes darting to it just as the shop keeper cursed and scurried over to assess the damage.

Just as the man began to crouch to pick up the pieces, Fenris felt a hand tangle in the collar of his tunic. Jerking his head back around, Fenris barely had a moment to gather what was happening before lips were being pressed against his. A pleasant chill made Fenris tremble, and he leaned into Anders' hold, allowing his eyes to slip shut.

Anders twisted Fenris' shirt collar around his fist, pulling the elf tighter against him and forcing his tongue past his lips. A quiet grunt left Fenris' throat, so Anders pulled away from him and released his grasp. Fenris turned his head down, his heart racing, and Anders licked his lips casually, smirking when he heard the shop keeper grunt as he stood back up.

Passing by the two of them, the man cast them a suspicious glance than Anders met with a cocky smirk.

“Hope it wasn't an expensive one,” Anders said casually, and Fenris lowered his head even more, having to bite his lip to keep from snorting. The man merely grunted, slipping behind the counter once more and depositing the remains of the statue into a trash bin.

“Could have been had I sold it to the right man.” He muttered, patting off the smaller debris from his hands. Anders gently pushed Fenris away from him, then he approached the counter with the cat in hand.

“I'd like to get this one.” Anders announced, setting the cat delicately upon the counter, “Wrap it if you will.”

“A gift, then?” The shop keeper asked, taking the cat with less care than Anders gave it, and he pulled some dyed parchment from beneath his counter, a vibrant but uneven yellow, bright as the sun.

“Of course.” Anders grinned, leaning his elbows against the counter as he watched the man wrap the figurine, then set the whole thing is a small paper bag for easy carrying, “A gift for myself, in fact. It's high time someone spoils me for all I do.”

Fenris chuckled despite himself, receiving a rather dirty look from the shop keeper, but Anders looked pleased with himself anyways. Once the bag was set, the man regarded Anders once more and said, “That'll be three silvers.”

“How about five? For the broken one as well.” Anders grinned, holding his hand out towards Fenris for coin. The elf quickly untied the purse from his belt and dug into the velvet. Withdrawing the accurate amount of coin, he placed the money in Anders' palm, who then dropped the silvers across the man's counter carelessly, not even apologizing when one rolled right onto the floor.

The man, torn between commenting on Anders' generosity or his callousness, was stuck gaping at the mage and his slave as the man took the wrapped figurine from the table and held it out to Fenris. After tying the purse back into place, Fenris then took the bag and held it close to his chest.

Pushing himself from the counter, Anders headed straight for the shop door and called out over his shoulder, “Good morning! Glad doing business!”

Fenris hurried after his master, gift in hand and frown on his face, but he didn't bother apologizing for his master either. Anders did what he pleased, and to be ashamed of the actions of his master was to ask for punishment.

And yet, once they exited the store and resumed their walk further into town, Fenris couldn't help himself and he blurted out, “Was it truly wise to treat that merchant so carelessly?”

Anders sighed loudly, tilting his head skyward for a moment before saying, “What are you on about now? I paid him for the broken one.”

“You threw your coin at him...” Fenris pointed out, his brow furrowing, “And you only broke the figurine to... to...”

Anders smirked over his shoulder, delighted by the sudden blush he found on that dark face, “Face it, you would have begged for it had I asked.”

Fenris gritted his teeth, keeping his head down, and he muttered as quietly as he could, “You wouldn't have to ask...”

“Pardon?” Anders asked with far too much delight, pausing his gaunt through town to look at his elf with a cocky little grin, “Say that again, elf? I lost your voice to the wind.”

Scowling, Fenris practically tucked his chin to his chest as he growled out, “There is no blighted wind.”

Anders laughed, tossing his head back once again, casting his smiling face in the golden light of the sun. He continued to walk, a spring in his step more pronounced than before, and Fenris could do no more than follow with a small smile of his own. Transferring the bag from his sword hand to the right one, Fenris allowed himself to relax and enjoy the town with his master. There were more people the further they went, but they kept to the sides of he road, skirting around Anders with a wide berth.

As they drew close to a plaza, the sound of music began lilting through the air. A crowd was being drawn around a young bard, her silvery voice in harmony with the notes being strummed from her lute. The song was fast and bouncy, making the crowd around her tap their feet or clap their hands along with her. A mother began to playfully dance with her daughter, and that spurred a few others to pair off and dance. The bard smiled as she sang, happy that the people enjoyed her song.

Anders stepped closer to them, his eyes twinkling in interest. He watched them gallivant around the plaza, the beat of the music finding him as well, and he joined a few others in a rhythmic clap. Fenris hovered behind him warily, keeping check of the people who wandered too close as they danced. He could feel himself bristle when they drew near enough to touch, and he itched to either pull Anders away or unsheathe his sword. Either action would surely draw people away, though the look of enjoyment on Anders' face was too much to sacrifice as well.

But when the pairs split off and grabbed at those in the crowd around them to pull them into the dance, Fenris' hackles rose. One woman grabbed Anders and began to pull, the mage's face lighting up at the prospect, but before she could pull him too far, Fenris snatched her wrist in a tight fist and tore it away. Her eyes widened in sudden fear as she looked at the elf, but Fenris held no remorse for her. Instead, he squeezed her wrist even tighter, a silent warning about touching his master.

“Fenris! Enough!” Anders gasped, shocked by what he was witnessing. The elf still held onto her, staring right back into her terrified gaze. The woman began to tremble, tears welling in the very corners of her eyes. Anders grew sick of it.

“Let her go!” He shouted, and Fenris jerkily obeyed, though not without an extra shove to make sure she kept her distance. The woman stumbled backwards on jellied legs, then all but collapsed on the pavement. No longer frozen by fear, she let out a wail and clutched her abused arm to her chest. The dancing crowd halted, the music cut short, and a man across the plaza rushed through them all, crouching down beside the woman to assess the damage.

The crowd drew nearer, whispering behind their hands. Fenris felt an embarrassed heat rush over his skin. He had caused a scene for his master. He tried to look at Anders from beneath his lashes, but the mage had forsaken the slave to approach the woman instead, speaking to her in a low tone.

“I am so sorry, serah. I don't know what possessed him to... here, let me see.” Anders soothed, coaxing the crying woman to expose her now reddened wrist so he could fix it. Fenris tried to swallow down his shame, but it was much too large to stomach.

He took a step forward, wondering if he should help, but the woman flinched back and shouted. Anders glanced back, then deliberately shot an arcane bolt right at the elf's feet, making him jump backwards lest he be hit. Fenris turned wide eyes on his master, shocked that the man would almost hurt him like that, in front of all of these people, but Anders ignored him once more.

The mage enveloped the woman's wrist with both hands, gentle in his touch, and he said to her in a quiet voice, “It will feel warm for only a moment. It will be alright.” The woman nodded silently, her eyes wide and round, and Anders began to heal.

Even from a distance, even when the spell wasn't directed at him, Fenris felt a wave of calm wash over him. His lyrium brands sparkled from the magical fallout, though they didn't shine as bright as they could. Fenris watched the woman go from teary-eyed and trembling to calm and relieved, and all at once, the elf felt jealousy burn in his breast. That was _his_ spell. That was _his_ healing magic. Anders only ever touched him with these talented and charmed hands. They weren't meant for other people. They weren't meant for these... _scum_.

“Enough,” Fenris demanded, stepping forward once again. Anders glanced at him again, shocked, “She is healed.”

“I think I will be the judge of that, slave.” Anders spat out before thinking. Fenris paused, seeing the flicker of horror pass behind Anders' eyes, but he hardened them anyways and stuck with what was spoken. The elf squared his jaw and stiffened his shoulders.

“Master Danarius will think otherwise.” Fenris said evenly. The sudden cut of healing magic was as sharp as a knife in the elf's skin. He wanted more. He wanted it directed at him. The woman, still in the ebbing wave of calm, regarded her arm carefully.

“It's healed.” She said, loud enough for her partner to breath in relief and for Anders to smile her way.

“I apologize again, serah.” He said to both of them, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“You best get that blighted elf under control.” The man warned, helping the woman to her feet. Anders rose alongside them. “Or one day someone else might have to put him down.”

Anders' breath caught in his throat, considering how to respond. Fenris gritted his teeth, hearing them squeal from the force. The mage carefully regarded the slave, then muttered, “Thank you for your concern. I'll be sure to train him more carefully in the future.”

Turning away from them, Anders began to leave the plaza. Fenris slowly began to follow, though he kept his eyes on the woman for a few moments longer. She didn't understand what it meant to be touched by Anders. She didn't understand how great a blessing it was to be graced with his magic.

But Anders didn't understand either. Turning his gaze back to his retreating master, Fenris scurried after him, his pace quickened by his hammering pulse. Anders had just turned out of the plaza, entering a small pathway between shops, and Fenris decided to utilize the opportunity.

Grabbing his master by the shoulder, Fenris shoved the mage against the stone wall. Anders grunted at being manhandled, though his eyes widened in something more akin to shocked excitement than it did rage. The man all but shuddered when Fenris trapped him against the wall with nothing but his own body, one hand propped against the wall beside Anders' torso, his face right in Anders' own.

“Stand down, elf,” Anders tried to dictate, but his voice completely lacked any control, his words shaking from anticipation. Fenris leaned in closer, his gaze hard his mouth set in a line.

“Touch another with your magic like that and I will rip them apart,” Fenris breathed, the words leaving him as if he were whispering sweet nothings rather than the threat they were. Anders trembled before him, Fenris' voice doing _things_ to him.

But the meaning was far more important. Anders had to steel himself to really face the reason for this stand off. Clearing his throat to try and resume his position as _master,_ Anders declared, “I will heal whomever I wish. You have no power to choose my patients for me, nor do you have the power to make such demands of me. I hardly believe Father will like it, either.”

“And I hardly believe Master Danarius will like hearing of his son performing healing magic in the middle of a plaza as if it were a party trick,” Fenris shot back with a quick tongue. Anders had to bite down on his bottom lip to keep from grinning.

“Then what do you want of me?” Anders asked eventually, his voice low, “What must I give for your silence? A kiss?”

“No,” Fenris growled, actually _growled_ , though the elf leaned in even closer, their breaths mingling at this point. Anders tilted his head subtly, making sure it would be simple for the elf to merely take, for at this point that was what Anders was truly hoping for. It was practically impossible for the mage to keep from begging him to, and yet somehow he kept the words locked in his throat.

The elf breathed carefully, taking in the sight of the mage at his fingertips, his mind obviously racing with all he could do with him, _to_ him. Anders wondered if he wanted suggestions. He also wondered if it would be too forward to just drop to his knees already. His mind was half made-up about the subject when the elf spoke again.

“Heal me.”

“What?” Anders blurted, arousal turning to confusion, “You're not even injured.”

“Heal me,” Fenris said again, leaning into Anders completely now, body to body and nose pressed against his master's neck, his lips still moving, “Please, Master. I ache for it. I could feel the spell within me, within the lyrium. I need it.”

Anders stood there silently as Fenris pleaded against his skin, his delight completely drained. Was this what Danarius wanted when he forced Anders to constantly bring the elf back from the brink during the procedure? A creature so devoted to Anders that he wanted no one else to bear witness to his power? To see the elf so boisterous and demanding all because Anders healed a woman's wrist... At first, it had thrilled the mage, but now he didn't know what to think.

Sliding a hand between them, Anders placed his hand flat against Fenris' chest. A pulse of healing magic flowed from the mage and into the elf. Fenris groaned right into Anders' ear, his body stiffening and his lyrium brands bursting to life with the wave of mana. As the surge ebbed, Fenris' body fell lax, and he all but collapsed against the mage who struggled to hold up his dead weight.

“Fenris?” Anders whispered, not at all expecting such a reaction to a simple healing spell. A moment passed in silence. Then another. Anders tried to jostle the elf, but he continued to hang limp against his torso. “Fen?”

A breath pulled into the elf's lungs. Slowly, Fenris came back to himself. Then, a bit faster, he came back to his training. Jerking away from Anders as if he had been hurt, Fenris did not stop until he had put as much distance between them as the narrow alleyway would allow. Anders kept to his wall while Fenris all but hugged the other.

“Forgive me, I... I don't know what came over me...” Fenris whispered, looking anywhere but Anders. The mage in question merely stared at him, struggling with his own thoughts, trying to find a suitable conclusion.

The tension between them stretched on, unbearably thick. Anders felt like he was choking on unspoken words. He wanted to remedy it, even just a little bit, but every time he managed to force his clenched jaw open, all that came from him was a breath. Fenris squirmed under the pressure. He clutched the bag he still held to his stomach.

“Fenris... I...” Anders finally began to speak, but a third party came running into the alleyway, stealing the spotlight. It was a boy, barely entering his teen years and dressed like a merchant's son. He paused for breath, doubling over with his hands on his knees. Fenris's hand found the hilt of his sword, immediately wary of this stranger.

“Please... please, are you the healer?” The boy panted out, standing up straight again and looking right at Anders, who's brows lifted at the title.

“Maker, no!” Anders denied quickly, holding up his hands, palms out, “I hardly fit such a title! I barely healed a bruised wrist, I didn't bring her back from the dead!”

The child looked confused for all but a moment before he said more sternly, “You _have_ to be the healer! The healer from Thekla's clinic!” Anders' entire body went stiff at the name, and his eyes grew focused. “You have to be him!” The child continued.

“What happened?” Anders demanded, and the kid let out a relieved gasp before he began to prattle out a story, leading Anders out of the alleyway all the while. Fenris followed close behind, his hand still on his sword.

“My grandfather's been sick for nearly a fortnight now and the healers won't sell us the medicine any more! He started coughing again and now he can hardly breathe! Please, _please_ hurry! I fear he won't make it!” The kid told, breaking into a run soon after. Anders began to follow after him, but Fenris snatched his wrist before he could.

“Fenris, not now!” Anders spat, turning on the elf with a scowl.

“Master, don't,” Fenris said anyways, his eyes wide and round. He had a bad feeling about this. He couldn't explain why, couldn't place what set him off, but this was not what they thought it was. “Leave him be.”

“And let his grandfather die? I think not.” Anders said, twisting his wrist out of Fenris' grip and running after the boy. Fenris sucked in a sharp breath, but he followed after them. He knew nothing of the city they were in, but he kept a mental map of the turns they were taking, the back roads they were running through, and the stores and buildings they passed. They bypassed most of the market district of the city and soon entered a more residential area, though the place looked run down and unkempt.

“He's this way!” The boy shouted as he vanished around the corner. Fenris' gut churned, completely unsettled by their surroundings. They were practically in the slums.

“Master, stop!” Fenris called out, reaching out to grab Anders again, but the mage slipped just out of his grasp.

“Enough! I need to help him!” Anders shouted back, turning the corner quickly. Fenris huffed, irritated, and slipped 'round the corner as well.

“This is a ruse!” Fenris declared, absolutely certain of that fact, though he still didn't know why he was so certain. He quickened his pace, ignoring the boy waving at them to follow as he slipped into a shack and closed the door behind him, and he grabbed Anders one last time, yanking him to a stop. This time, however, he was met with a strike to the face.

“You're embarrassing me!” Anders spat out viciously, even as Fenris cowered before him. At the words, Fenris dropped to a knee, feeling his breath leave him faster than if Anders had electrocuted him. Anders towered over him for a second longer, ensuring the elf stayed down this time. When he was certain there would be no more complaints, Anders turned his back to him and marched to the door of the shack. Fenris watched him go, desperate to call out for him to stop, but terrified to move any more.

Anders approached the door. Fenris squeezed his eyes closed, trembling. He could hear the door begin to open. Could hear the whining of a bowstring pulled taught. The creak of the door on its rusty hinges.

“Master!” Fenris shouted, jerking his head up to see Anders had pushed the door only half open. There was still time. Only a half a second left. Fenris' body glowed, the lyrium stinging his flesh from head to toe, as if he had been dunked into a pool of ice. He was moving before he really even thought about it, coming up to Anders impossibly fast.

He reached a hand out to shove Anders aside, but instead, his entire arm sunk into the man's torso. Anders went rigid, his head jerking down and his eyes widening as he witnessed Fenris' entire forearm protrude from his stomach in a flash. Fenris stumbled forward, off kilter, and slipped through Anders' form completely.

Now standing between his master and the door, still swinging open from Anders' initial push, Fenris flickered back into reality. He caught himself on his feet, balancing himself long enough to properly look into the doorway he stood in. Towards the back of the room knelt the boy, bow and arrow in hand, with the business end pointed right at him.

Fenris turned on his heel, he had to protect his master first. With both hands, he shoved Anders back just as he heard the bowstring twang. Anders slammed into the ground, his head cracking against the ground hard enough to make his vision swim. Fenris opened his mouth to tell the man to run, but the words were stolen from him the moment the arrow sunk into his shoulder.

Fenris cried out in pain. He could feel his pulse around the object jutting out of his back, and he forgot his sword in lieu of clutching at his bicep, hoping to squeeze the shock away. Distantly, he could hear Anders calling his name. Distantly, Fenris knew his master was still in danger. He had to do something about it, he knew that, but all he could do was fall to his knees and cry.

The sudden sharp spike of elemental magic hardly compared to the aching throb of the arrow, and the heat he could feel erupting behind him only made his skin around the wound sting. He cried out again, pitching himself forward to try and distance himself from the pain, but it followed him mercilessly.

He felt a hand on the back of his neck and another clutch the shaft of the arrow. He felt the thing rip from him before the onslaught of healing soothed his nerves. His cry turned to vomiting, his body seesawing between unrestrained pain and blessed peace. His breathing grew rapid, his mind unable to settle on whether he was dying or reaching ecstasy, and all at once, he collapsed.

“Fenris!” Anders shouted as soon as the elf fell unconscious. The shack behind him was burning in a pyre, the two-faced child trapped within to suffer the consequences of damaging the wrong man's property. He clutched the elf to his chest, trying to shake him back awake, but the slave remained unresponsive. He had gotten the arrow out and had healed the wound, but Anders had overdone the magic. He overwhelmed Fenris' body, like he had many times before when Karl was still training him. The elf wouldn't die, far from it, but the fear was still very real.

The sound of encroaching footsteps alerted Anders to the men that now surrounded them. They were all armored, two of them armed with blades with the other stood there with crossed arms. They bore the insignia for house Arvanitis on their breastplates and belts. They were his father's men.

Anders didn't realize he was crying until one of the guards threw a kerchief at him, muttering out a displeased, “Clean yourself up, boy. We're taking you home from here.”

The mage struggled with that declaration for a moment. He nearly fought the guard who pulled Fenris away from him, tossing him over his shoulder like a sack of rotten onions. The unarmed guard helped Anders to his feet with a rough hand, then pushed him to walk between the three of them.

“Knew the slave wouldn't know how to wield a blade.” The guard muttered, keeping a hand on Anders' back to keep him walking. None of them suggested putting out the fire.

A carriage waited for them when the roads widened more. The guard carrying Fenris threw the elf inside, then stepped in after. The guard walking Anders pushed the mage towards the carriage and closed the door behind him. The carriage jerked as it began to roll, and Anders could see the two guards following behind it.

Anders settled himself on the bench across from the guard, mindful of his feet since Fenris was sprawled out on the floor. The rocking of the carriage seemed to rouse the elf back to consciousness, and soon the slave was pushing himself up onto his knees. The soldier didn't acknowledge him, so Anders didn't either. Still, he kept his eyes on the elf, wondering what was going through his mind at the moment.

They reached the manor in a fraction of the time it took them to wander through the town. They were brought right up to the front door, only stepping out of the carriage when the guard sitting in with them pushed the door open and made sure the area was clear.

Anders stepped out first, and he immediately zeroed in on his father, who stood in the doorway with his hands clasped behind his back, a look of sheer disappointment on his face. Seeing such a familiar look made defiance bubble in Anders' chest, and he tried his best to walk by the man with his chin in the air. It was hard to pretend to be confident, however, when he could feel how tear-stained and dirty his face and robes were.

Danarius gestured beside him, so Anders went to his father's side. He stood there with a scowl, crossing his arms childishly. He and Danarius watched as Fenris stumbled his way out of the carriage, his legs wobbling with each uncertain step. Danarius' stare hardened at the sight of the elf, and Anders soon realized _he_ wasn't the one in trouble here.

“Bring the elf to the main hall.” Danarius demanded. He turned on his heel and walked inside once the soldiers saluted, and over his shoulder, he called out, “Anders! Come.”

Anders watched for a moment longer as the soldier who rode with them and another grabbed Fenris by the arms and lifted him. As they approached, Anders stepped into the manor and followed after his father. The man had stopped before the indoor fountain, leaning against the stone lip with his head hanging. Anders didn't dare approach him, but he stood close enough for his father to be aware of him.

The sound of Fenris hitting the marble floor echoed through the hall, louder than the gurgling water in the fountain. Anders didn't want to look at the slave, afraid to see what he might look like at the moment. Danarius closed his eyes, listening to the elf pant in fear and push himself to his knees.

The room grew cold. The water in the fountain began to freeze, starting with the tubes that pumped the water out in elegant arches, then the topmost pool, all the way down to the main source. It creaked and groaned as the ice squeezed against the fountain walls. Anders clenched his jaw tightly, knowing his father was far past mad now.

Slowly lifting his head, Danarius spoke towards the fountain, “I have given you so many things since you came here.” He straightened his posture, his hands falling to his sides, “And you repay my generosity like this?”

Fenris didn't answer. Anders nervously peeked towards him, and he felt his stomach twist in discomfort at the sight of the elf doubled over himself with his forehead pressed to the floor. His shoulders shook with his breaths. Anders' eyes latched onto the hole in his tunic, where the arrow had sunk its way through it and into his skin.

Danarius turned. He regarded Fenris with a cold indifference, his hands finding their place behind his back once more. His face twitched with restrained rage, but Anders knew it wouldn't be long before he finally lashed out. The man sucked in a sharp breath from between his teeth. He had more to say. The words he forced from his throat were tight, barely holding back his anger, as he said, “Do you think I will not kill you? Do you think your life means anything to me? You bear my greatest gift within your skin, but do not think for a mere second that that will protect you from your rightful punishment.”

He stepped towards the elf, and Anders felt his skin jump. Danarius wouldn't actually kill Fenris, would he? After all this trouble he went through, would he _actually_ dispose of the one thing he was proud to have created?

“I was wrong to think you were ready for this test.” Danarius continued, slowly walking around Fenris' bowed form, his eyes glued to the slave as if he could end him with his stare, “You are nowhere near the guard I was training you to be. You are nowhere near the slave you were born to be. And if you are not a slave, then you are _nothing.”_

Fenris' body jolted, but he stayed obeisant in posture. A series of muffled whimpers and sniffles were coming from him. He was crying. No, he was sobbing into his arms. Danarius lifted a hand, and suddenly Fenris was crying out, his body convulsing as pulse after pulse of electrical magic ran through his body.

“Dad, stop!” Anders gasped, and Danarius did, though he didn't stay any longer. The man stormed out of the hall, already through the door as Anders rushed to his elf's side. As the young mage knelt beside him, Danarius' voice echoed through the house one last time.

“Leave him be! Let him learn from his mistakes!”

Anders' hands hovered frozen over Fenris' convulsing body, watching as he suffered through the aftershocks alone. The guards by the door continued to watch. One of them began to laugh when Fenris soiled himself. The other grumbled under his breath about having to clean it up.

Slowly, Fenris came down from the pain. Carefully, he pushed himself up from the floor, his face tear-stained and red from embarrassment. He avoided Anders' gaze as he shucked off his tunic and began to clean up his own mess. Anders got to his own feet, feeling numb. He left Fenris and went to his room instead, not uttering a parting word or gesture.

That night when Fenris came to Anders' room to bid him a good night, the mage pulled Fenris to his bed and forced him to stay. He clung to the elf even as he slept, the guilt of seeing his slave being punished for Anders' own mistake more terrifying at the moment than the realization that Karl Thekla was dead. He didn't ever want to see Fenris in that sort of pain again without being able to help him. He didn't ever want to fail this elf again.

Holding him tighter to his body, Anders pressed his nose to the back of Fenris' neck and wept into his hair.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments, kudos, and the like are appreciated (though comments are my favorite ;D)


	3. His True Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was actually supposed to include half of what NEXT chapter will have, but this chapter got a little TOO long for me to comfortably smoosh the two together (I mean, I already threw two 20k word chapters, but a 30k word chapter? Now that's just excessive.)
> 
> That being said, porn ahead. Hopefully, by the next chapter the ball will start rolling and we'll start getting somewhere.

Anders sat reclined against the chaise lounge, a ball of arcane magic in his hands to give his fingers something to tinker with. He pretended to be solely invested in it, the way it changed hue as he imbued it with different elements, the way it would fluctuate in size depending on the amount of mana he poured into it. He pretended to not be watching the slave sitting cross-legged by the foot of the lounge, Anders' half-eaten breakfast in his lap as he finished off the eggs. Fenris had resorted to using his fingers to eat the food, since whenever he went to lift the fork from Anders' tray a residual shock of electricity from Danarius' punishment yesterday would pass through his fingertips. It was hardly painful, Anders believed. The elf was just too terrified of what had happened to realize that.

Anders spun the ball in his hands, his eyes glued to Fenris now. The ball took on a refreshing green tone, and almost immediately, Fenris' shoulders relaxed. His hurried devouring of Anders' breakfast slowed to a healthy chewing, a savoring of the flavors and tastes he would be otherwise banned from experiencing. Anders tilted his head, just a fraction, as he watched him. He was glad Fenris was happier now. Seeing him in pain the very night before had been... harrowing. Anders would never want to see such a thing again. Out of all the things that had run through his mind then and played on a constant loop even now, there was only one thing Anders was absolutely certain of.

The ball dissipated. Fenris froze mid-chew, refusing to lift his head to regard his master as he had all morning. He was nervous. Afraid. Of Anders. The mage didn't like it. Fenris knew he would never hurt him. He _knew_ that.

“I almost lost you yesterday.” Anders uttered, the first true sentence he had spoken to his slave since Danarius' display last night. Fenris stayed silent, though his throat worked to painfully swallow down whatever mouthful of egg, fruit, and bread he held. Anders had asked the other slaves to bring him breakfast in bed just so he could ensure Fenris ate after his ordeal. And even then, he had to eat off the plate himself before the elf would even look at it. Anders awaited an answer, a grunt of acknowledgment, _anything_ , but Fenris was painfully silent and remarkably still, waiting for something himself.

Deciding silence was all Anders would get, the mage pushed himself upright from his lounging position, setting both feet on the floor. Fenris slowly moved the plate off of his lap and onto the floor beside him. Anders leaned his elbows on his knees, feeling as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders with how tense the room was. “Never again do I want to see you like that and feel so... helpless.”

“I apologize, Master. I will speak with Master Danarius about my punishments,” Fenris responded dutifully, but Anders scowled and shook his head.

“No! Maker, Fenris, no. That is not what I meant.” He stated, lifting himself onto his feet so he could pace. He didn't miss how Fenris flinched away from him initially, nor the way the elf curled in on himself, wary about Anders' newfound height over him. He didn't comment on it, but he put it in his mind to bring it up in a moment. They had this to talk about first.

Crossing his arms, Anders paced exactly ten steps to the left, then ten back to the right, treading a path in the carpet just in front of Fenris. “It is not that I don't want to see you in pain, Fenris. It's that I don't want you to be in pain at all! What happened yesterday was...” His throat grew tight. Maker, but this was hard to admit, “It was my fault. You were trained to pick up on these things, on these... ruses. I should have listened to you more carefully. And it isn't right that you were punished for my wrongdoings. It isn't right!”

Anders threw a fist in the air, aggravated, and this time Fenris' flinch back was violent. The elf covered his face with his arms, throwing himself back against the chaise lounge so hard the wooden feet scraped loudly against the stone floor. Anders stopped his pacing, looking back at his slave with wide eyes. The poor creature was breathing heavily, form trembling from fear. When his hands lowered enough to see what Anders was doing, the mage could easily see the terror in his gaze, even when it was quickly averted to the floor.

“Fenris,” Anders whispered, forcing himself to calm down before he began to approach the elf. Fenris swallowed nervously, then again, and Anders wondered briefly if the elf was about to vomit. “Hey, hey, calm down,” The mage urged, kneeling to Fenris' right and putting a hand on his drawn-up knee. The elf didn't pull away from his touch, which was good, but his breathing hadn't soothed and nor did his panic. “Look at me, Fenris... Look.” He reached out to grab the elf's chin to direct his attention, but the moment he touched his face, Fenris let out a sob and tried to push himself further away, making the chaise scrape once more against the floor.

Anders frowned more and reached out with both hands, grabbing Fenris by the upper arms to hold him still. When the elf still continued to struggle, Anders forced a light burst of healing magic through him, something cool and soothing. Fenris' brands pulsed once as the mana washed over him, his entire body going rigid for only a second before he slumped forward. Just like in the alley the day before, Fenris melted into a sack of dead weight, though this time he still seemed to be conscious if the way he clung to Anders' sleeves were any indicator. The mage waited patiently, still holding onto his arms just in case the elf resumed his squirming, but he felt it would be best if he waited for Fenris to act first.

The hands on his sleeves slowly relaxed their grip. They fell away from Anders' arms and instead settled on his waist, pausing there before they continued to roam, meeting in the center of his back. Anders relaxed his own grip on the elf, and soon Fenris' arms were wrapping around him, holding the mage close in a loose hug. Anders allowed the elf to tuck his head against his collarbone, deliberately hiding his face from his master. Gently running his fingers through Fenris' hair, Anders closed his eyes and allowed himself to enjoy this closeness. The elf was warm, and though he still held the slightest tremor in his muscles, he seemed comfortable being tucked against Anders' body like this.

Fenris took a deep breath as he was held, inhaling Anders' familiar scent, and the way it comforted him was both so convenient and yet so confusing. He had seen slaves tend to Danarius. He had seem them flitting throughout the manor, productive in their work and yet unaffected by their own desires. He had seen the look of distaste upon one such slave when Fenris was being taught to clean their masters' most personal spaces, but he had not uttered a word of defiance or disgust. He kept his mouth shut and continued to clean, and directly after he was done, the look, the task, and the reaction was all left in the past, forgotten until the next time he would be told to do it all again. None of the slaves he had worked with had begged Danarius to hold them. None of them ever spoke of what they enjoyed or didn't enjoy, even to one another. They hardly spoke to each other about anything other than the task at hand, and they only did that if they absolutely had to.

If Fenris was like them, if Fenris was a slave, then why did he feel like here, locked away in Anders' most private spaces, tucked against his master's body with his arms protecting him, he could ask for anything without punishment? Why did he feel like he could grab this man so forwardly, when he was supposed to be nothing but property to him? The thoughts made him tremble again, made the panic in him rise once more. If he could not control himself around Anders, how could he ever think to control himself in the face of the public? Master Danarius was already upset with him for his failure yesterday—and it was _his_ failure, not Anders'. Fenris knew that if he continued to make these mistakes, Danarius might as well follow through with his threat and end the slave. Fenris couldn't allow it. He couldn't let Anders go through that.

“Master,” Fenris breathed, squeezing his eyes shut tight out of fear. He knew he could speak his mind here. He knew Anders would never turn away from him here. But he didn't know why. “I don't understand... What is wrong with me?”

“Nothing is wrong with you, Fenris,” Anders whispered immediately, but the elf shook his head against the mage's chest, refusing that statement.

“Do not lie to me, Master... Please...” He forced himself to pull away. He needed to see Anders' face. He needed to know exactly what the man thought, exactly what he felt, in a way only a slave could tell. “I am unlike my kind. I cannot bow to you, no matter how hard Danarius trains me--” Fenris growled and tore at his own hair, angry with himself, with his mind, and he spat out, “ _Master_ Danarius! No!” Anders' hand froze in the air where he had been reaching to stop Fenris from hurting himself, “Do not touch me! I--” Fenris cut himself off with another infuriated growl, “I don't understand!”

“Then let me help you understand,” Anders said, holding out his hand for Fenris to take instead of just grabbing. The elf scowled down at the mage's open palm, so Anders pressed, “Fenris, please. I can explain it all, but I need you calm.”

The elf's irritation felt like an endless whirlpool, but Fenris did what he could to hold it within himself, to keep it from bursting out of him at the seams. Closing his eyes to help center himself, Fenris forced himself to settle before he reached for Anders' hand. The mage intertwined their fingers, and he let the mana flow between them, the smallest sliver of magic that made the lyrium upon Fenris' hands and forearm glitter. It didn't overwhelm like before, but it helped soothe the torrent inside the elf.

“Look at me,” Anders requested, and Fenris met his gaze far too easily for the slave to be comfortable. Still, Anders smiled at him, and he even leaned in to give him a soft kiss. That, to Fenris' pleasant surprise, helped his emotions settle far quicker. Now almost completely soothed, Anders whispered, “Fenris, you are not just a slave.”

“I know. I am your bodyguard as well.” Fenris responded automatically, and Anders' smile grew tight for a moment.

“No. Well, yes, but that's not what I meant,” Anders sighed, looking away for a moment to gather his thoughts. “I know nothing about your life before this. But I believe you had been a slave then, too.” He looked back to Fenris, who was frowning at him, trying to understand, “But I'll tell you the same thing I told you during the Games. I don't want a slave. I don't want a bodyguard. I just want a friend. And a friend is an equal. _You're_ my equal.”

Fenris stared at Anders. He stared silently for so long that Anders began to feel uncomfortable. They were still friends, weren't they? Fenris hadn't changed his mind about the declaration he gave Anders about their relationship not even two months ago? Anders was afraid that Fenris was about to tell him he was no friend of his, but instead, something even worse fell from the elf's lips.

“Then why did you hit me?” Fenris asked him, and Anders felt his blood run cold. Anders looked away, feeling ashamed as he remembered the things he did to Fenris the other day. No wonder the elf had torn himself away from him so violently. He was not only afraid of what Danarius had put him through last night, but what Anders had done to him as well.

Snapping back to himself, Anders realized Fenris was waiting for an explanation. But what could he tell him? He struck him because Fenris was a slave, and after all that Anders said, that fact still rings true in public? That Fenris had embarrassed him in the face of others and he directed that as anger at his so-called friend? That, in truth, Anders was as dark and twisted as any other Altus in Tevinter, despite his pretty words and friendly facade?

Fenris' hand slipped from Anders', and the mage felt something drift between them. They could never be friends. Not if they stayed in the Imperium. Fenris would always be his slave, and Anders his master. No matter how much Anders wanted it, Fenris was below him, and they were expected to act like it.

So deep in his own melancholic revelations, Anders almost missed it when Fenris gifted him a soft kiss. He only noticed when the elf began to pull away, so Anders lurched forward and returned it, far more desperate for the intimacy than the slave had been. Fenris held Anders face as their lips met roughly, and the mage wrapped his own arm around Fenris' body. He never wanted to let the elf go. He never wanted to accept that this society would drown the both of them before they could even share a friendly smile in public.

And when they pulled away, Fenris pulled Anders' closer still, not stopping until the mage had his nose pressed to the elf's shoulder. With calloused hands, the elf held Anders there and whispered to his master, “I understand now, Master. I forgive you.”

But whatever it was that Fenris came to understand, Anders would never be sure, as the mage wasn't entirely certain he understood it at all himself.

For the remainder of the week, Anders saw less of Fenris than usual. The mage still kept his promise and roamed the estate, taking his classes in rooms where he knew he could watch Fenris in the courtyard or reading books in the halls he thought Fenris would be practicing in, but he didn't see hide or hair of the elf. He barely even saw his father, either, which was disconcerting all on its own. He had gone to the dining hall for dinner, but was told by one of the slaves that Danarius was busy with work, and that it may be best if Anders take his meal in his bedchambers instead.

The only time he saw his slave was when Fenris came to him at the end of the night, and even that was fleeting. The elf barely stepped a foot into the room to greet Anders before he was bidding him good night again. Anders asked Fenris to stay that first night, but the elf surprisingly refused.

“Master Danarius thinks it will be best if I retire to my chambers early.” Fenris explained, keeping his eyes to the floor, “I apologize, Master, but I cannot go against Master Danarius' wishes.”

He fled the room before Anders could even respond. And that was how he acted for the rest of the week as well. By the time it had drawn to a close and the new week was beginning, Anders felt like he was going to go insane. His world of manor walls and lectures and lessons and Fenris' damned indifference was closing in around him, making his lungs constrict and his thirst for just a touch of Maker-forsaken fresh air swell. On the eve of the new week, Anders decided enough was enough. Fenris had just skirted out of Anders' room with another excuse about having to turn in early. Anders knew the guard around his room and windowsill had weaned over the months. Danarius thought him sated with the elf as his slave, and initially, he was.

But now, after more than three months of this sedentary lifestyle, Anders decided it was time to go out.

He dressed in darker robes so the guards near the front of the manor wouldn't see him. He pulled together the coin he held onto from the day out in town last week and stuffed it into his pocket. Casting a spell on the door to his bedchambers, Anders left a hex that would freeze the wood and lock together the moment someone tried to open it.

Running to his window, Anders pushed it open and examined the space around it carefully. He watched as a guard walked through the gardens, making his rounds. He didn't even think of looking up anymore, it seemed.

Confident that there were no runes or hexes around the space of his window, Anders began to slip out, balancing precariously on the four inches of trim just outside of his windowsill so that he could scoot his way to the creeping vines draping down the wall of the garden.

He had just reached the greenery when he heard the hex in his room go off, freezing the door shut. Anders felt his heart race. Already? He hadn't even made a noise! Anders grumbled under his breath and hastened his steps, grabbing the vine with both hands now and expertly lowering himself onto the grass.

The sound of something heavy shattering made Anders look back up towards his open window. He pressed closer to the wall, thinking that if it were a guard, they wouldn't see him in the shadow of the manor. He could hear the intruder running throughout his bedroom, the sound of his furniture shifting about, and then, finally, a head stuck out from the window.

Anders held in a yelp when a pair of perfectly circular, bright, and green glowing cat-like eyes darted straight to him, reflecting even the barest amount of light that filtered in from the moon.

“Master?” Fenris called out, confused, but Anders waited no longer. Cover blown, Anders threw caution to the wind and launched himself off of the wall, running straight for the manor entrance. He heard Fenris curse from the window, but when he glanced back, he saw no one standing there any longer.

“Shit,” Anders muttered under his breath, facing forward again and continuing his wild sprint, “Shit, shit, _shit, shit!”_ He stumbled when he nearly ran into a guard. The man looked at Anders in surprise, obviously not expecting him to be running once again. Belatedly, the guard tried to grab him, but Anders was already running again. The guard barely took two steps to follow when a blast of force magic had him flying back a good three feet, knocking him onto his back in a loud clatter.

He could hear a bell chime from the manor, and his skin ran cold. Great. Now Danarius knew. He had installed the damned thing to alert the guards whenever Anders ran—though Danarius told him it was just in case they were ever under attack which, to be honest, _never_ happened.

But despite the bell and despite the small battalion of guards probably running after him now, Anders was close to the gate to the manor, still hanging open despite the time of night and the bell ringing in the distance. Once he was past it, he could either slip into the nearby woods or continue his frantic run to the town where he might be able to blend in with the night crowd.

Struggling to make up his mind, Anders reached the gate quicker than he would have liked. Pausing in the middle of it, Anders tried to catch his breath. He might be a mage of impressive power, but he really needed to work on his stamina.

Looking back towards the manor, Anders could see the guards just coming out of the front door, swords drawn and lanterns in hand. They would be coming after him soon, and Anders had to make up his mind about where to go, but he continued to watch in surprise, especially when he saw Fenris step up to the front line with the guards, dressed in black armor that stood out against all the silver breastplates of his comrades. He wore no helmet, perhaps to keep from impeding his hearing and sight, but he did wield a great sword, similar to the one Danarius had gifted him the final day of the Games.

Again, Fenris eyes zeroed in on Anders, the small pinpricks of green light shocking in the middle of the night. Anders decided he had watched long enough and took off again. He would go through the forest. At least that way, Fenris wouldn't be able to immediately spot him, or so Anders thought.

However, Anders didn't know the nature around his home as comfortably as he knew the nearby town. Still, he pressed on. If Fenris were chasing him, he would stick out like a sore thumb in the midst of the town.

His running had turned into frantic stumbling as Anders struggled to spot tree branches and uprooted stumps before he ran into them. He thought about casting a mage light to help guide his way, but he knew that would only make his position all the more obvious. He would be found and captured much too quickly, and Anders was planning to run for as long as he could that night.

Distantly, Anders could hear the guards beginning to blunder their way into the forest just like he had. Urged to move faster, Anders continued forward, trying to make his path as fast yet as discreet as possible, but his attempts were for naught.

“He went this way!” He heard Fenris shouting, leading his incompetent guards through nature he himself did not remember, and yet it seemed he didn't have to. His voice was coming closer much faster than the shuffle of metal and the snapping of twigs.

“Blighted elf! Slow down!” One guard shouted, but it didn't seem like Fenris was listening.

Anders gasped when another root tripped him up. He fell to his knee before he caught himself, and as he stood, another shout rang through the forest, making the hair at the back of his neck stand on end.

“I see him!”

“ _Kaffas!_ ” Anders blurted. Blast it, he thought to himself. Fenris had already spotted him. Now it was going to be a game of chase.

Summoning a mage light to better see, Anders ran forward once again, able to dodge branches and leap over roots more easily now. However, the bright glow of the mage light could only reach so far, giving Anders only a few yards of sight at best. Fenris, chasing behind him, hadn't been hindered either way, and he kept up with the fleeing mage far better than any guard before could.

“Master, stop!” Fenris shouted suddenly, but Anders wouldn't listen. He continued forward, not wanting to be captured by his slave, not wanting to go home just yet. He just wanted his freedom. He just wanted a bit of fresh air. “Master! Stop running! That's a ledge!”

A bit of fresh air and water was apparently what he would be getting.

“Oh, sweet Andraste's--!” Anders screamed when his next step was on air, and all of a sudden the man was slamming headfirst into the waves. He wasn't sure how deep he sank, though his thick robes dragged against the ocean and kept him from going too far. Anders twisted about, trying to figure out which was was up, and quickly distinguished a bright glowing orb shining above the water's surface. Blighted mage light had all but refused to follow its castor into the darkness. Anders blew a few angry bubbles from his nose.

Deciding to cast a second ball, thus dissipating the first one, Anders took a brief look at his underwater surroundings to ensure his safety. He regretted it immediately. Seeing how close he had come to smashing against the jagged rocky outcropping below him made his heart palpitate, and Anders quickly swam for air. As soon as he breached the surface of the water, Anders was met with a chorus of relieved breaths and shouts. The guards were all standing and kneeling by the ledge, and Fenris was currently halfway down it, his blade abandoned by the trees.

“Master!” Fenris called out, both relieved and upset, and he skidded further down the side of the ledge until his feet were being lapped at by seawater. “Are you hurt?” He asked, reaching out to pull Anders out of the water as the mage dragged his own and his robe's combined weight towards him. Getting the waterlogged mage halfway out of the sea seemed difficult enough for the elf, but the slave managed, and he held onto the man tightly to prevent him from slipping back in.

“I'm fine. Could have smashed my face in, though, Maker preserve me.” Anders admitted, glancing up at the guards again, who were preparing to reach down to pull Anders up from the ledge wall. Anders reached out a hand for them to grab, frowning when the soldier's hand slipped at first.

“You scared me,” Fenris admitted quietly, letting Anders go so that the guards could lift him up without any extra weight. Anders glanced back at him for a moment, but couldn't respond. As soon as the ledge was in reach, Anders helped pull himself back onto stable ground.

As soon as he was back on his feet, the guard helping him up immediately held onto his arms to ensure he didn't run again. The others began to march back towards the manor, leaving the one holding Anders and a second one to supervise to catch up. As soon as they started moving forward, however, Anders frowned and dug his heels into the dirt. Forcing the man holding him to stop, Anders shouted, “Wait! What about Fenris?”

“The slave can make his own way.” The guard supervising answered. Anders scowled at that and continued to dig his heels in.

“No! That's unacceptable! Go fetch my slave, now!” He demanded haughtily, and the guard gave him a baffled look.

“You can't be serious, Master! It's just a slave! If he can get down there, he can get back up!” The guard argued, but that was the wrong move. Anders stared at the man in shock, then he jutted out his bottom lip and promptly froze his feet right to the ground.

“What the--?! Oh, Maker!” The guard holding the mage hostage shouted, and he let go of the mage's arm, “Just go get the elf!”

“But--!” The first guard began to argue, but ultimately stopped. He knew it was a lost cause the moment Anders began throwing his temper tantrums. Throwing his hands into the air, the guard stomped back over to the ledge and knelt down.

“Blighted Altus and his blighted slave!” The guard growled, unaware that Anders could hear him clearly, “Come here you damned elf! Come on! Let's get you back to Ser Hissy-fit over there—Yeowch!”

Anders tried to turn to see what had happened, but he could barely get a good view in the dark. He was able to see the guard and a shape beside him, but that was all. When the shape began to move and Anders saw the lyrium glowing on his skin, he immediately relaxed and allowed the ice encasing his legs to melt.

“The rabid beast bit me!” The guard announced, holding out his gloved hand to show that Fenris' teeth had chewed through the leather, “He fucking bit me!”

Fenris scurried over to Anders' side, glaring at the soldier all the while. Now protected by his master, Fenris hissed out, “Speak of my Master in such a manner again and I will do more than bite.”

Anders chuckled and stepped out of his ice as soon as he was able. Kicking off the remaining shards on his robes, Anders held out his arms, one to the guard that stayed at his side and the other at Fenris, “Go on, then. Time to take me back to my father.”

Fenris regarded Anders for a moment, then looked at the other two guards before he barked out, “Go on ahead. I will take him back myself.” Anders shot Fenris a curious look at the decision, while the guards looked baffled to be given direction by a slave. The one at Anders' side looked to the mage, waiting for some sort of sign of disapproval. When he received none, he shrugged his shoulders and began to walk ahead.

“If you lose him again, you'll be the one to answer to Danarius,” The guard warned. As he vanished into the trees. The other guard slowly shuffled forward, still nursing his bitten hand.

“Your slave is a blighted lunatic.” He groused, skirting around Anders without even hesitating at the thought of leaving them alone, “If I get sick from this.... Maker preserve me...”

His form soon vanished, too, and Anders and Fenris were left alone by the cliff-side. Anders looked at Fenris expectantly, but the elf seemed busy with staring down at his feet. Frowning at the silence, Anders crossed his arms and tilted his head. “Wanted to be alone with me so you can contemplate the ground, then? Andraste's tits, Fenris, what do you--”

The elf moved suddenly, shoving Anders back until the mage was tripping over his own feet and falling on his ass. Even then, the elf pursued, stepping over Anders with his hands squeezed into fists and a tight scowl on his face. His eyes were glowing again in the darkness, sending chills of fear up and down Anders' spine.

“Fenris?” Anders breathed, unsure if his slave truly was going crazy and was about to attack. Would Anders even be able to protect himself from him? He certainly still had a lot of mana left, but Fenris was a skilled warrior now, wasn't he?

The elf gritted his teeth, then he dropped down on his knees, all but straddling the mage's thighs. Grabbing Anders tightly by the front of his robes, Fenris looked right into his eyes and declared, “You _scared_ me! The second I felt your magic, I thought—And then your room was empty and I—! You—You can't _do_ that to me!” He shoved him back again, forcing Anders to lay supine against the uneven woods floor. Anders reached up to grab at Fenris' wrists, his breath caught in his throat. Fenris looked like he wanted to tear him apart, wanted to dig his fingers into flesh and see how far he could stretch it. Anders wondered if he was about to die by his slave's hand.

“What even possessed you to run?” Fenris asked loudly, bewilderment in his eyes now, “Why didn't you stop when I told you to? You could have been hurt! You could have gotten lost and starved! You could have... you could have...” He sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, then crashed their lips together, getting a surprised whine from the mage beneath him. The kiss was messy and rough and it didn't last long because Fenris was pulling back again to continue scolding him, “You damned mage! You foolish, stupid, stubborn mage!”

Anders watched it all in awe. He took each word without complaint, not even phased by the insults. In fact, all Fenris' words did were make his heart race and a smile light up his face.

“Stop your grinning, fool!” Fenris demanded, irritated that his rage was funny to the mage. When Anders didn't obey, Fenris tried to cover it with his hands, but he could still see the smile lines around the man's eyes. “I said, stop! It isn't funny!”

“No,” Anders agreed, his voice muffled under Fenris' palm, “This is _delightful_.”

“Bah! You're insane!” Fenris scoffed, shoving Anders head back before he stood, not even stopping to offer to help Anders up, “Surely you hit those rocks harder than you thought! Something has been knocked loose!”

Anders laughed despite himself. Pushing himself up and onto his feet, he swiftly came up behind Fenris, wrapping his arms around the man's waist and pressing himself against his back. It was a little more painful to do than usual what with all the armor, but Anders still managed to nuzzle his way to Fenris' neck, leaving a bounty of kisses there. The slave shivered in his grip, his head tilting to the side to allow Anders space, though he was still very much upset and he was determined to let this be known.

“If you _ever_ do that again, Master, I--” Fenris swallowed thickly when Anders' hand managed to slide underneath his breastplate, pressing flat against his tunic-covered chest. The other began to work at the clasps that held the metal tight, just so Anders could push his hand further in, “I will never forgive you! I will rather let you—Let you drown!” Fenris tilted his head back and trembled, Anders' fingers pulling the drawstrings to his tunic loose. He soon slipped his hand past the collar, and suddenly skin was on skin, and Fenris thought it was the most amazing thing he could ever feel. His lyrium brands pulsed with pleasure as Anders stroked his collarbone, his pecs, and even the very start of his stomach.

“ _Master_ ,” Fenris gasped, his legs turning to jelly the more Anders touched him. The mage chuckled against his skin, allowing the elf to lean heavily against him. With most of the clasps on Fenris' armor loosened, Anders' free hand traveled downward. His fingers skirted along Fenris' thigh, _just_ brushing against his more intimate places, and Anders gasped when he realized the best and worst thing simultaneously.

“Not even a codpiece? Please tell me this armor set is a work in progress.” Anders tutted, despite Fenris' suddenly eager whimper.

Licking his lips, Fenris tried to get his voice to work again, and he managed to rasp out a simple, “It is...” Anders hummed in satisfaction, but he teased him no longer. Instead, he laid his hand flat against Fenris' thigh, pulling him even tighter against himself. He ran his nose along the side of Fenris' neck, grinning at the tremors he could feel in the muscles there.

Reaching the elf's ear, Anders let out a hot breath before admitting quietly, “This is the Fenris I prefer...”

“M-Master?” Fenris responded nervously, though he didn't fight any of it even for a second.

“Passionate. Open-minded and able to speak it.” Anders explained with a grin, his hands slowly retreating, “Unashamed to admit when his master is being a fool.” Stepping away from the elf now, Anders frowned at himself, “Like now...”

Fenris was breathing heavily, but he could stand on his own two feet. He turned to regard his master, his hands holding onto his breastplate to keep the loose armor in place. They stared at one another for a long moment before Anders had to look away, shame tinting his ears red.

“You _are_ being a fool...” Fenris muttered, turning himself completely to face the man more comfortably. Anders frowned deeply and crossed his arms again.

“I apologize... I know it isn't right... You barely have the power to say no.” Anders sighed. Fenris shuffled awkwardly on his feet for a moment, but then he began to tighten the clasps on his breastplate once more.

“Yet had I said it, you would have obeyed.” Fenris pointed out, and Anders nodded in agreement. “You give me that power.”

“And yet I still throw myself at you. It's hardly fair to you, forcing you to tell me no over and over again.” Anders muttered, and he gestured for them to begin walking. Dipping his head, Fenris allowed Anders to follow, falling silent as they went. Using a mage light to guide them, they made quick work of the woods, and Anders grimaced at how obvious his path had truly been. He had broken far too many branches and tore through too many bushes to be the sneaky runaway he thought he was being. Anders wanted to bring it up, but when he looked back at his slave, he found him lost in thought, his brow furrowed deeply in contemplation.

It wasn't until they stepped out onto the paved road by the gates did Fenris respond.

“Had I ever told you no?” He asked, and Anders turned to look at him again, brows raised.

“Pardon?” He asked, seeking clarification.

“Whenever you held me like that... whenever you kissed me... had I ever told you no? Had I ever asked you to stop?”

Anders' brows furrowed this time. He thought back to the many times he couldn't help but fondle his slave, and yet he couldn't come up with even one instance. Even back in the sculptor's shop, Fenris was receptive to Anders' actions. He only expressed his displeasure at the way Anders treated the merchant and his wares, not the way he kissed him.

The elf watched him think carefully, waiting for the tell that would alert him to Anders' awareness, waiting for that moment of realization. When it came, Fenris smirked, and he reveled in the sight of Anders' mouth working wordlessly, his eyes growing wide and a blush dusting his cheeks.

“Master,” Fenris spoke up, and he could hear Anders' teeth click together when he snapped his jaw shut. The elf took a breath, summoning all of his willpower and bravery for this one moment, and he took a step closer. “Master,” he said again, looking into Anders' eyes, “You are a fool for not having what I so obviously want you to take.”

With what he wanted to be said spoken, Fenris gestured for Anders to continue walking, and together they made their way back to the estate. The short ten minute walk was silent, allowing Anders time to really reflect on Fenris' meaning. The elf truthfully never pulled away first, nor did he ask for Anders to stop. In fact, the elf had been the one to instigate some situations himself, which Anders enjoyed to the very bottom of his heart. And yet, even with these thoughts in mind, the idea of taking the elf, this same elf who had bashfully obeyed Anders' word that one night during the Games, the one who trembled and told Anders that he had no say in the matter of his own chastity... It made Anders mentally halt.

Was this what Fenris truly wanted from him? And if it wasn't, would the elf ever tell him as such? Was he only saying these things because he thought he needed to?

Anders would have asked, but they came upon the entryway to the mansion far too quickly. Danarius stood in the doorway again, flanked by an even number of guards and with Hadriana at his side. Anders squared his jaw at the sight Hadriana's less than amused scowl and his father's disapproving stare

Those same, cold eyes slid towards the elf following Anders up, and suddenly they warmed, pride and satisfaction filling them in a way Anders never saw directed at himself. Glancing back, Anders watched as Fenris swelled in delight at the gaze. Danarius' pride became his pride, and when they stopped before the Magister and his assistant, Fenris immediately dropped to his knees.

“I have to admit, I'm rather impressed. It usually takes the guards until morning to find him after he's left the manor.” Danarius spoke calmly, reaching out for his son and grabbing him tightly by the shoulder. Anders grunted, but otherwise didn't show his discomfort. Danarius glowered at his son for a moment, but otherwise ignored him and instead looked at Fenris again, “After your utter failure last week, I was certain you would not last much longer. But after tonight... well, I'm willing to give you another chance.”

Danarius pushed Anders towards the doors to the manor, then said, “But it is late. We will resume your regular lessons tomorrow. Escort Anders to his room. Make sure he doesn't get distracted again.”

Anders scowled at that, but Fenris had nodded and was standing already, heading towards his master. Danarius let them go without another word, though Hadriana leered at them as they passed, her arms firmly crossed. Once they had vanished upstairs on their way to Anders' bedroom, Anders asked his slave, “What does he mean by 'resume your regular lessons'? What have you been doing all week if not your lessons?”

Fenris frowned at the question, averting his eyes for a moment and muttering, “Master Danarius has told me not to speak of it...” Anders grimaced and was about to complain, but then Fenris was glancing around them, a conspiring glint in his eye. When he was certain they were alone, Fenris stepped closer to Anders and whispered, “Let's get you to your bed, Master. We will... speak more there.”

Hurrying to his bedchambers, Fenris paused when he saw the mess on Anders' floor. The elf had smashed through the frozen door to get into his room, and the wooden pieces were scattered along the marble. Anders stepped over them carelessly, but when Fenris didn't follow, Anders merely waved him in.

Stepping over the wood, Fenris felt the tips of his ears burn, and he muttered, “I'm sorry, Master...”

“Worry not. Come,” Anders gestured towards the bed, “And remove that damned armor. I don't need my sheets getting torn up, too.” He could see Fenris' face heat up again, though this time not in shame. The elf walked towards the bed, peeling off his breastplate, the arm guards and gauntlets all the while. He set his armor away from the bed, then warily sat upon it, but Anders stayed standing. Using his magic, Anders blasted the wooden pieces out of his room and into a pile in the hallway. Once that was cleared, Anders then summoned up a thick wall of ice, filling in the empty space the broken door left.

The frost on the ice made it hard to see through, but certainly not impossible. Anders figured it was good enough, and he went to join Fenris on his bed. As soon as he sat down in front of the elf, Fenris was speaking to him.

“I had asked Master Danarius to train me.” Fenris explained vaguely, “I wanted to be... perfect for you.”

“Fenris,” Anders sighed, scooting closer to him, “I already told you...”

“I know what you told me.” Fenris frowned, looking at his master's distraught expression, “That's why I asked him. And it seems his training has paid off. He is pleased with me.”

“He's only pleased because you caught me on my worst escape attempt ever.” Anders pouted, turning away from Fenris to properly flop onto his back on the mattress, tucking his hands between his head and the pillows, “Seriously, I wasn't even out for an hour. How did you know I had left so quickly?”

Fenris stayed sitting up, but he turned to look at Anders anyways, his brows raised, “I knew the moment you cast your spell. It wasn't much different from the other times, but... but you never use that sort of magic when you're alone in your room.” Fenris cast a look at the door, then asked, “Did you hex it?”

“I did. I used the same one before. Usually, my guards don't break it down, though. That surprised me, too.” Anders answered with a slight smirk. Fenris shrugged a shoulder, bashful.

“I needed to get to you. The door was in my way.” Fenris mumbled, tucking his legs underneath himself and settling his hands on his knees. “Why did you run?”

Anders scowled at the question. He thought about it quietly for a long moment, then shuffled around until he was lying on his side, facing his slave. “I ran because I wanted to and because I can. Why do I have to wait for Daddy's permission to go out into town, hmm? If I want to go, I should be able to go.”

“But you will be unprotected. Who will guard you?” Fenris asked next, his brow furrowed, “You can get hurt and no one will be there to save you.”

“I don't need saving!” Anders huffed, rolling onto his stomach now and tucking his chin against his pillow, “I'm a Tevinter Altus! I've been bred to be the most powerful mage in all of Thedas! The Archon himself wants me to be his apprentice!” He complained, waving a hand in the air, “I can save myself!”

“But you shouldn't have to.” Fenris argued still, staying rigidly sitting upright, “Protecting your life is all I am made for. You need to be able to rely on me.”

Anders suddenly perked up at that, and he looked directly at Fenris when he asked, “So if I were to ask you to run with me, you would go?”

Fenris, suddenly caught in the spotlight, stiffened up even more, his eyes growing wide, and he blurted out a dumb, “I—I... Err....”

Anders' delighted gaze suddenly turned sour and he went right back to pouting in his pillows. Fenris sighed, his ears twitching, and the elf considered what he could do to make it better.

Danarius' training came to mind, and Fenris felt himself shudder before he decided this would be the best time to implement it. He looked at his master once again, looking at the way his robes wrinkled against his muscles as he made himself comfortable. Begin it with a touch, he reminded himself. An intimate touch. A massage.

Slowly, Fenris took in a breath. Slowly, Fenris lifted a hand from his knee and began to reach out. Slowly, he pressed his hand against the center of Anders' back. He could feel the mage stiffen under his touch, could see him turn his head to regard his slave curiously.

“What are you doing?” Anders asked, even as Fenris unwound himself from his rigid sitting position and moved closer, setting both hands on his back now and beginning to press down into the muscles. He didn't answer the mage, and merely focused on caressing, on kneading out the tension in the man's body and replacing it with a satisfying burn of calm. His own kind of healing magic, Fenris had thought to himself the first time and again even now. His own way to give back to his master.

“Fenris,” Anders began to protest with a frown, but the elf silenced him when he worked on the muscles just below the nape of his neck, making the mage arch with a groan. The noise made Fenris tremble, but he continued to rub, digging his thumbs on either side of Anders' spine and guiding them down his back, following the way he rolled into his touch like a wave.

“Does this feel good?” Fenris asked even though Danarius had once warned him away from speaking during such situations. Anders was different than his father, Fenris believed. And what he believed was true, for the mage merely nodded and gasped when another taut muscle beneath his shoulder blades was loosened.

“Oh, right there,” Anders lilted, turning his head to the side to allow himself breath. Fenris looked upon his blissful expression, contorting in brief pain as he worked the next muscle into relaxation, then melting again into ecstasy. “That's it...” Anders breathed, his lips hardly moving. Fenris turned his gaze back to his mage's body, servicing the muscles, making sure there wasn't a touch of pain that wasn't immediately met with a groan of pleasure.

But the robes were hindering the elf, he soon realized. He slowly let his hands fall away from his master, considering, but Anders didn't move any more than to groan in dismay. Thinking the elf was done, Anders let out a sigh and mumbled, “Thank you, Fenris.... I didn't even know I needed that.”

“There is more.” Fenris decided to say, and he could see Anders turn his head a bit more to peek at him, “But I cannot proceed with this in my way.” He tugged helplessly at the mage's robes. He wasn't sure what sort of response he would get, if it would be negative or insulting, but he certainly hadn't anticipated the way Anders' cheeks glowed red, nor the way he seemed to become a little shy at the idea of it.

Fenris said no more on the subject, not pressing his mage to obey nor retracting his statement, and he watched as Anders decided on what to do. The mage then began to pull away from him, his eyes downcast and his freckles standing out beautifully against his flushed face. He stood from the bed, his robes immaculate in the way every wrinkle and inch of misplaced fabric seemed to flow into place like water. Their iron-pressed appearance was fleeting, however, for the mage began to undo the buckles set along the torso. One by one, the material sagged further, until finally the whole piece was slipping from his shoulders, exposing the flesh of his arms, then his chest, until finally it laid on the floor in a heap. Fenris found himself holding his breath as he watched it all, a wave of desire he had never felt during his lessons with Danarius.

“Should I remove this as well?” Anders asked quietly, his voice tremulous in anticipation, and he played with the strings to his sleeveless under-tunic. Fenris could barely swallow much less speak, so he merely nodded his head once. His heart began to race as he watched Anders loosen the strings, then pull the cloth up and over his head. Fenris successfully restrained the pitiful noise that threatened to bubble from his throat, but he could not hide the way he desperately took in Anders' body, as if he had never seen him before. It was a foolish thought. He had seen his master many times. It was only that this was the first time that Fenris held a plan in mind that would get him close to that body, closer than he had ever been before.

With his mage shirtless, wearing only the thin cloth pants mages wore beneath their robes, Fenris fought the urge to merely stand and touch the man. He had to be patient. He had to be malleable to Anders' desires. This was all for Anders, he reminded himself. His wants and needs were that of his master's, not of himself.

And yet, as Anders returned to his place on the bed, laying face-down against the sheets with his head comfortable against his pillow, Fenris knew he would not be able to control himself for long. His hands ran over warm skin aimlessly as he thought of where to start. He could count the freckles when he was this close. He skirted his fingertips around them, indulging in the thought before he forced himself to focus. His heart was still racing a mile a minute as he began to rub, starting at the small of Anders' back, and he nearly felt his entire form freeze when Anders interrupted with a nervous, “Um...”

“Master?” He breathed, his hands still on his skin and his eyes focused on the man's face. Anders seemed to be blushing harder, and he glanced Fenris' way before he looked away again.

“Perhaps it will give you a better angle if you are to... say... bestride my thighs?” Anders suggested in a nervous voice. Fenris could only furrow his brow at such a request. Danarius had never allowed such a thing. In fact, Fenris thought, if he had ever tried to sit upon him, Danarius would have punished him that very moment. To be asked to perch upon his master in a position closely correlated with power over another was impossible, both in it being asked and in Fenris being able to follow through.

His reluctance to obey made Anders grow doubtful, and suddenly the mage began to push himself up onto his elbows again, planning to get away from the situation. Fenris gasped and all but threw himself against the man, wrapping his arms around Anders' middle to keep him still. “No--!” Fenris pleaded, flinching when Anders' arm swept just above his head, though he had no intention to hit the slave. He merely looked down at him, his eyes wide.

“Please don't--” Fenris struggled with his words, but he did not loosen his grip. Instead, he fought through his insecurities and merely said, “I was... I was merely surprised. I will do it. Please...”

Anders slowly relaxed, and as he relaxed, so too did Fenris. His arms slid away from his master's body, and Anders settled back onto the bed, though he did not lay down just yet. Instead, the mage looked at Fenris, calculating, and Fenris did all he could not to fidget or show impatience. The mage brushed a hand against Fenris' cheek, then slowly brought him closer to share a soft kiss.

“I will be patient, then...” Anders whispered, and though he still held hesitance in his eyes, he lowered himself back onto the bed, getting comfortable on his stomach one last time.

“Thank you,” Fenris whispered, both for Anders' promised patience and his willingness to give Fenris this second chance. Presented once more with his master lying prone before him, Fenris knew what came next. Setting his knees on either side of Anders' hips was surprisingly easy of a task, but as he lowered himself onto the man's thighs, a million thoughts raced through his mind. Was he too heavy? Was Anders comfortable? Was he going to hurt his master?

He could see Anders' shoulders tremble. Fenris thought for a moment that he could be laughing at him, but he brushed the thought aside. He had a task to do. He set his hands again at the small of Anders' back, surprisingly pleased himself at the new comfort such a position gave him. Pressing into the muscle there, Fenris first focused on where he could feel his spine. He ran his thumbs up and down then up again, his own toes curling at the noises Anders made for him. He spread his hands out and ran them in tandem with each other down Anders' sides, stroking up and over his ribs, then gliding past his shoulder blades and dipping along the curve of his neck towards his throat. He paused there for a moment, then followed the path back down, taking even longer to earn every little shiver he could get.

As his hands came to rest at the very end of his spine, just above where his tailbone was, Anders breathed out a simple plea of, “Lower...” Fenris felt his heart jump at the request, but he obeyed nonetheless, letting his hands roam down even more, moving from skin to cloth as he passed the waistband to Anders' pants. He stopped his hands just as he felt the swell of Anders' bottom, and he dug his fingers into the plush tissue there. The moan that came from the man made Fenris feel simultaneously cold and hot, and he moved his hands even further down, kneading him roughly to earn yet another gasping moan.

“Roll over.” Fenris urged in a rough voice, not at all quiet and complacent like Danarius had instructed him to be. He lifted himself from Anders' thighs to let the mage obey, and as soon as the mage was facing him wholly, Fenris pressed his hands flat against his stomach and settled back down.

What he was met with when he sat made the slave jolt back up, and he jerked his head down to see what had jabbed into his thigh. Anders covered his face with a hand, embarrassed, especially when Fenris stammered out, “M-Master?”

“Ignore it,” Anders pleaded shamefully, bringing his other hand to his face as well, effectively muffling his voice, “Maker preserve me, but your hands felt too pleasant...”

This was just another step in the process, Fenris realized. This was what Danarius tried to explain to him many times after his lessons. Seeing it come to life before him, seeing the way he could make his master react to him like this... it was empowering. It was something Fenris found himself ultimately proud of, if not a little overwhelmed. This was only the next step, he thought. There was far more to come.

Settling himself back down onto Anders' lap with a look of pure determination, he didn't miss the way Anders shook and gasp, nor did he miss the way he whined his name. “Damned elf, get off! Let it go away first!”

“You are being foolish,” Fenris said, though the words made him shiver. Resuming his massage, Fenris ran his hands up Anders' torso, unhindered by the arms in his way as he wormed under them. Pressing into the muscle of his pectorals, Fenris kneaded in circles around soft pink nipples, fascinated in the way they stiffened and peaked. He played for a moment with the fine hair dusting his torso, wondering jealously why he himself couldn't bear such a thing. As if to punish his master for having things Fenris could never have due to biology, he tensed his hand into a claw and scraped his blunt nails down the center of Anders' torso, all the way down to his naval.

The mage jolted at first, his back arching, then jerking away, and the man let out a choked cry from beneath his hands. His hips jolted against Fenris', knocking him off of the man's lap for only a moment, but the elf quickly resumed his position, purposefully pressing down on Anders harder, grinding against the still swelling erection. Anders shouted and shot out a hand, digging his fingers into the meat of Fenris' thigh to try and hold him steady.

“Stop... don't move...” Anders begged, moving his other hand to cover his eyes completely, not able to bear looking at his slave. Though he begged Fenris to be still, the elf could still feel Anders shifting beneath him, not helping the situation in the slightest.

“I am not the one moving,” Fenris pointed out slyly, and that only elicited a high-pitched whine from below him as Anders fought himself to be still.

“Maker...” Anders breathed, tilting his head further back, the vein along his throat pulsing. Fenris licked his lips, wondering if now would be the best time to progress. He shifted forward, putting his hands on Anders' chest to balance his weight, and he could feel his heart thrumming even though his ribs.

“Please relax,” Fenris bid his master, lowering himself just enough to steal a little taste, to brush his lips and his tongue against that rapid-beating vein. The vague hint of salt from the sweat on his skin was addicting, and the small taste turned into a desperate suckle that lead Fenris down the hollow of Anders' throat. His hands roamed the pale, fuzzy chest, the texture of that light dusting of hair making the nerves in his palms tingle pleasantly. When two hard buds brushed against his hands, Fenris centered his attention on them, pressing his thumbs to them first to test their resistance. He felt Anders' twitching in his trousers, could feel his ragged breath from where he stayed at his throat, and was deafened by his own pounding heart, filling his ears with the rush of blood.

“Fenris,” Anders breathed, his name barely sounding like a word with how airy it had come from his lips. Anders dropped the hand covering his eyes finally, reaching around the elf to grab a firm handful of his ass, guiding his hips down and urging him to grind. The two of them groaned in unison, Fenris startled by how immediate the wave of pleasure had come. Throughout his lessons, he had never truly felt pleased with his actions, only doing these things to bring Master Danarius to completion. He figured it would be the same with Anders, if not more intimate due to Fenris' connection to the man, but _this_... This was fogging his mind, making him forget why he was truly doing this. Perhaps this would be the mark of a good slave, one who shared his master's desires so completely.

He could feel Anders' heat beneath him, the throb of his cock each time he rubbed his groin against his. He wondered if Anders' was as hyper-aware of Fenris at this moment as Fenris was of his master, wondered if he felt the elf's answering arousal. He lifted his hips just the barest amount to realign them, and the plea torn from Anders' throat made Fenris' entire being, straight down to his soul, shudder in desire.

“Maker, please,” Anders begged, even as Fenris met their bodies together and rocked against him, “Please, do not leave...”

“I am here, Master,” Fenris gasped, releasing Anders' neck and instead pressing his forehead against his collarbone, closing his eyes to focus on the way he gyrated against Anders, taking note of which turn of the hip made Anders moan the loudest, and what speed he moved at made him pant.

“Fenris...” Anders whimpered, his head tilting back almost painfully, his fingers digging into the flesh of his thigh and buttocks. “Oh Maker, I want you so bad...”

“You have me,” Fenris reminded him, placing a soft kiss against the skin right where his collarbone met in a dip, “You have all of me...”

Anders seemed to choke on his next gasp, his entire body jolting. The words were arousing the man just as much as the sensation was, but Anders knew his point hadn't gotten across. Licking his lips and fighting through the breathy gasps and sighs that still left him at every movement, Anders explained, “But I want...” He gasped when a particular roll of the elf's hips had the mage's body alighting with tingles, and yet he preservered, “I want you to have _me_.”

Fenris freezing where he was was both a blessing and a curse. Anders hissed as the need for more pleasure burned at his loins, but he knew if they had gone much longer, Anders would end up spilling in his trousers. As much as he loved having his slave rutting against him like some Ferelden mabari in heat, he also knew there was so much more they could do, now that he knew Fenris wanted this just as much as he did. Or at least, he hoped that's what he was reading from the elf's suddenly shocked and awestruck gaze, wide-eyed and disbelieving all at once.

“You mean....” Fenris attempted to parse, his brows furrowing tightly and his warm body leaving Anders' so he could sit upright, “You wish for me to have you within me?”

Anders blushed at the question, but he didn't let it dissuade him. Certainly one day, Anders would like to venture down that rabbit hole, but at the time, nothing sounded better than the opposite. “Actually,” He began, having to pause to clear his throat, his heart now racing from nerves rather than excitement. What if Fenris wasn't too keen on going that direction? Perhaps the elf was purely a receiving partner... though the way he had been handling himself up to this point had Anders believing otherwise.

Gathering his courage, Anders ran his hands up and down Fenris' thighs, enjoying the way his muscles trembled still. His eyes fell unto the swell in those dark leggings he wore, the cloth tight against his form, making every curve and vein so visible it was mouth watering. Well, if Fenris didn't want to be in Anders _that_ way, certainly the elf wouldn't turn down a little head... But he was getting ahead of himself, and Fenris looked like he was losing his nerve. Anders would have none of that—for either of them—and he declared, “I wish for you to be within me.”

Fenris, the poor elf, looked even more startled by that claim, and he all but blurted out, “Master, you truly do not mean—you wish for me to dominate you in such a way?” He looked panicked at the idea, one of his hands brushing through his hair, “I have never... I do not think I... I know how...”

Anders' brows rose at the statement, and all at once, he pushed himself upright, wrapping his arms around Fenris' waist to keep him from tipping over. The elf had to slide down Anders' thighs to allow the mage up, but now they were close once again, and Anders took their lack of distance to his advantage. Bringing a hand up to cradle the back of Fenris' skull, Anders kissed his slave deeply, loving the surprised grunt he was rewarded with, followed closely by his lips parting and that delectable tongue inviting Anders in.

They played with one another for a long moment, Fenris losing himself in the sensation of his master's tongue dancing along his teeth. He was so wrapped up in the kiss that he only barely noticed Anders loosening his tunic. Their kiss broke as Anders peeled the cloth from his body, Fenris' arms raising to allow it to slip from him smoothly. Now shirtless, Anders ran his hands down Fenris' body, deviating from the entwined lyrium lines and instead following the dips and swells of muscle. His body was truly that of an elf, lithe and supple, but his training under Danarius' orders had caused a healthy layer of strong muscle to grow, nothing as impressive as a human male's might look, but certainly attractive in a masculine way. There was no soft edge to his body, no give when Anders pressed, and it only made the mage want to have him more.

“If I guide you, will you take me?” Anders whispered against his lips, refusing to kiss him again until he received an answer. Fenris shuddered, his eyes looking betrayed when he tried and failed and tried again to feel his master's lips upon his.

“I do not wish to hurt you,” Fenris whispered back, the fear very real in his mind, for all Fenris remembered during his lessons were numbness and pain. Anders smiled despite that, and he brushed their noses together in an intimate gesture.

“You will not. And if you do, I'm a big boy. I can handle a little pain.” Anders flirted, his smile turning wicked. “So, will you?”

Fenris still hesitated to answer, though he did settle his hands on Anders' waist so he could stroke his fair skin. He thought back to the many positions Danarius showed him, tried to recall the one that hurt the least, but even with that one in mind, he still did not wish harm upon his master. Especially if it was by his own hand.

But this was what his master wanted. Above all, that was the most important thing. None of this was for Fenris. If Anders asked him to dominate him, he shall, even if Fenris didn't enjoy it. But that didn't mean they couldn't set a few ground rules.

“If I think for a moment that you are in pain, I will not continue.” Fenris warned, stroking his thumbs up and down Anders' stomach, following the way it swelled, emphasizing the comfortable layer of padding earned from the sedentary lifestyle of an Altus, “But... if you guide me... I will follow.”

Anders grinned and rewarded him with a deep kiss, allowing them to taste one another before he was pulling away again. Patting Fenris' bottom, Anders urged the elf to lift himself to his knees so that Anders could wiggle out of his trousers and smalls. The elf watched him with an interested gaze, his eyes raking over his master's body. He had seen him in such a state before, but never had he looked upon him while the mage was aroused. His cock was flushed red and standing at attention, the foreskin straining helplessly against the head of it. The hair growing in wiry curls around his groin was a soft red, close but not the same as his strawberry blond hair. He was moist, most likely dampened from precum from their previous activities, and Fenris found himself wanting to touch it, to taste it, to have it in him.

Anders' hands began to tug at Fenris' leggings, and the elf got the memo. Removing his own pants, Fenris exposed himself to his master. He wore no smalls beneath the leggings, since the extra cloth would have merely been a hindrance with the way his armor had been designed. He was embarrassed to see himself standing at attention, the dark brown of his skin and the swell of blood causing the tip of his cut penis to be a shade of purple. He had only a fine coat of pubic hair, straight and soft and black, and Anders took to playing with it, brushing his fingers along the edge of where it began. Fenris could feel the muscles in his abdomen tremble at the sensation, torn between finding it ticklish and arousing.

“I thought elves were hairless,” Anders commented with a note of amusement, clearly not displeased by this surprise. Fenris merely grunted, his face warm with embarrassment.

“I have only seen myself. Though I know it does not grow much longer than this.” Fenris explained carefully, “But I have not seen this before.” He reached towards Anders, hesitating to touch him until his Master smiled and nodded at him encouragingly. Fenris first enveloped the shaft of Anders' cock with his fist. He could feel the man shiver in delight and throb against his palm. Keeping his grip tight, Fenris began to pull upward, making the loose skin bunch up around the head of his penis.

“There is so much here...” Fenris mumbled, letting go of Anders to watch his foreskin relax back into place, “What is it used for?” He pressed his fingers against the very tip, where he could see the shiny head of Anders' cock, and he slowly slipped his fingers underneath the extra skin. Anders groaned at the sensation, his hands digging into the sheets.

“It's... foreskin.” Anders tried to explain, even as Fenris peeled it back to reveal a more familiar shape of his head. The elf gasped softly, but his fascination with the foreskin was not yet satisfied. He pulled at the loose skin, eliciting a sharp grunt from his master, “It's more sensitive this way. From what I recall, elves are usually circumcised when they are infants—they get the foreskin cut off.”

Fenris scowled at that, and he finally released Anders penis, his fascination turned to jealousy. “That is unfair.” He muttered, stroking his hands along Anders' thighs instead.

“It is cleaner that way. Fewer crevices to wash.” Anders pointed out with a shrug. Not to mention that most citizens didn't fancy the idea of walking in on their slaves going to town on themselves. If their slaves didn't have to mess around with their genitals more than they had to when they bathed, the better. He didn't feel the need to say this out loud, however. Already, this conversation was deviating from what Anders was still very eager to have.

Bringing them back on track was surprisingly easy for the mage. All he had to do was send Fenris a meaningful gaze and settle back against the bed, his legs open for the elf. Fenris ceased speaking altogether and instead watched, his eyes hungry and yet still very much wary. Anders gestured with his opened hands for Fenris to come closer and the elf obeyed.

“Watch me.” Anders bid him, and he held open his palm. Summoning forth creation magic made Fenris' markings tingle, and soon Anders' hand was dripping with far too much grease for the young mage to know what to do with.

“Er... Ah... Here.” Anders took Fenris' hand with his free one, slathering a healthy coating on his palm, “Coat yourself with that.” He instructed, glancing meaningfully down at Fenris' groin. The elf frowned but did as told, only to stiffen and gasp when the slickness gave way to a new form of pleasure.

Anders, on the other hand, used the remaining grease on himself. Curling underneath himself, Anders' slick fingers found their way to his anus, and he pressed the first in slowly. Fenris' eyes widened as he watched, enraptured by the sight of Anders penetrating himself. His hand slowed on his cock, not wanting to burst before his master could take what he wanted.

He could see Anders' expressions as he pierced himself repeatedly, his wrist bent awkwardly underneath him to properly bury one, now two fingers inside. His lips pursed, his eyebrows pinched in concentration, but he kept his eyes shut, either not wanting to see Fenris watching him or trying to really focus on the sensations he was experiencing. Fenris tugged on himself roughly, too enraptured by the sight to really stop himself. At his rugged gasp, Anders peeked a single eye open, then began to grin. He allowed his free hand to rub against the base of his cock, then roam up his stomach and play with his nipple, putting on a show for his slave.

“Enjoying yourself?” Anders asked breathlessly, and Fenris felt his face burn at the meaning. Anders didn't take his silence to heart, his smile much too sly to betray a moment of doubt, and soon the mage was pulling his fingers out, leaving himself stretched and ready for the elf to finally take. “I'm sure you'll like this part better.” He whispered, planting his feet flat on the bed and lifting his hips a little, “Don't leave me waiting.”

Fenris licked his lips, once again facing the dilemma he didn't want to think about. Danarius had only ever shown him his role as a submissive slave. Never had he offered to show Fenris any dominant positions... Though, Fenris supposed, he could easily take what he recalled feeling and seeing from Danarius and his many 'training tools' and try and mimic that. He took in a steadying breath, regarding Anders' now pouting expression. His master was getting impatient. Fenris couldn't keep him waiting for long.

“Yes,” Fenris merely whispered, scooting closer to his master, pulling at his ankles until Anders loosely hugged them around his waist. Leaning back a bit, Fenris took himself in his hand and regarded where he would be sliding into. Anders was immaculate on every spot on his body, and it seemed even his most personal areas were as well, though currently it was slathered in his grease.

“Start slow,” Anders instructed softly as Fenris pressed the head of his cock against his ass. The elf glanced fleetingly at his master's face, then focused again on where they were joining, gasping in time with Anders when he began to sink inside. The grease surely made the passage smooth, something Fenris didn't have the benefit of when he was taken by Danarius' tools. The thought both relieved and irked him. He was glad his master would not have to suffer such an embarrassing ache, but he knew Danarius knew just as many spells as his son. Why hadn't he suggested its use? Purely because Fenris was a slave?

“Maker, Fenris, tell me you're almost in,” Anders groaned, getting the elf to jerk his head back up. Seeing his master tense and gritting his teeth made the elf falter. He had been wrong, it seemed. Even the grease wasn't enough to quell the pain.

He had half a mind to pull out, but even at the slightest back-motion, Anders all but squeezed his thighs against the elf's body, trapping him against him. Locking his ankles together, the mage practically growled out, “Don't you even think about backing out now!”

“You're in pain!” Fenris claimed, panicked by the thought that his master was now _forcing_ him to hurt him. The elf's heart raced, the idea killing his excitement at the very sensation of his partner's tight body around him.

“No, no, no!” Anders whined, feeling his slave softening within him, “I like it! It's a good pain! Please, please, I need this!”

A good pain? Did his master think he was dense? How could there be such a thing? Fenris shook his head at the thought. Anders whined pitifully.

“Just--” Anders began to protest, wiggling his hips to try and get Fenris in further. It didn't have the desired effect, but he found the elf groan despite this, his hands grasping Anders' waist. Eyes alighting in the discovery, Anders rolled his hips languidly, mimicking the motions they were making when they had been rutting against each other. Fenris trembled and bit down on his lip, his head bowing low. Anders, eager to change the slave's mind, then squeezed around the length inside of him, and that seemed to drive Fenris mad.

“Maker! You—you damned—“ Fenris jolted forward, slamming a hand down on the bed beside Anders' head while the other clutched at his hips to provide him with leverage. With a newfound vigor, Fenris continued his penetration of the man, all the while hissing out, “You will be the death of me!”

Anders would have laughed if he wasn't preoccupied letting out the longest and most lewd moan his body could muster.

Once the elf was fully seated within Anders, Fenris dropped his head to the mage's shoulder, his body still trembling and his hips twitching with restrained excitement. Anders felt his thighs shaking as well, and he figured it was safe to finally relax his hold on his partner. His ass ached, however, Anders did all he could to keep his discomfort from showing.

Bringing his hands up to Fenris' dark hair, he ran his fingers through his locks in soothing motions, an adoring smile gracing his lips. Perhaps cruelly, Anders asked in a teasing voice, “So? How does it feel?”

Fenris could only answer in a muffled groan, his hips twitching more violently only for a moment before he got himself under control again. Slowly, shyly, Fenris tilted his head to the side so he could look his master in the eye, and Anders felt his breath catch at the very sight of him. Those wide, elven green eyes were absolutely blown with lust, his pupils dilated to only reveal a sliver of emerald. His face was warm with the blood that had gathered at his cheeks, and his thinly pointed ears seemed to be trembling along with the rest of him. Anders felt his heart seize at the sight. Maker, but the elf was beautiful.

“I do not want to move,” Fenris admitted in a roughened voice, embarrassment clouding those lusty eyes. Anders' own brows rose at the confession, but he needn't prompt Fenris to explain himself, “You feel so good around me... I fear I will come undone the second I retreat...”

Anders bit his lip, the thought more alluring than disappointing. He himself was still very eager to be taken, and he hoped Fenris truly wouldn't release so soon, but at the same time, he was more than eager to see ecstasy overcome his slave.

Against his better judgment, Anders whispered, “It's alright... It's alright if you do, but I want you to look at me...”

“Master,” Fenris whimpered, almost afraid, so Anders hushed him with a gentle touch to his cheek.

“It'll be fine. I promise.” Anders soothed him, stroking the high point of his cheekbone lovingly, “Keep your eyes on me. Good boy,” He smiled at him, his eyes lazy as they kept Fenris' from straying, “Now pull out... nice and slow...” His voice hitched when Fenris began to obey, the slide of his cock inside of the mage tantalizing. Oh, how he prayed that it wouldn't end yet. And if it did, how he prayed for Fenris to come back to him for more. Fenris trembled harder, his eyes losing focus as they rolled back. Anders bit his lip to refrain from crying out a desperate, “Not yet!” but it was already too late. A wet heat foreign to Anders' body filled him, bursting forth from Fenris' twitching cock.

“Maker,” Anders whimpered, the sensation of pulse after pulse flooding him more erotic than he cared to imagine. Fenris, on the other hand, was blessedly silent, though his mouth had opened wide against Anders' skin. As the elf began to unwind, his body slumped and jaw clenched. After a moment, he resumed pulling out of his master. Anders shook when he felt his fluid following suit. He tried to clench his thighs together to try and keep it inside, mostly so he didn't ruin his sheets, but the damned elf didn't help when he peered down and made a curious noise. His fingers roamed down and pressed against Anders' winking hole, urging more of his spunk to spill.

“Forgive me, Master,” Fenris whined as he drew his hand away, though he still sounded breathless from the whole ordeal. He dropped his gaze to the bed sheets, unable to look at Anders with so much shame in his chest.

“What for?” Anders asked in surprise, slowly pushing himself upright. He himself was hardly winded. He was still erect and desperate for some sort of friction, but soothing his poor elf seemed more detrimental at the moment, “You're adorable when you ejaculate. I only wish I could see it again.”

Fenris glanced up at Anders, caught off guard by the statement, but Anders didn't let his startled look linger. Instead, he cupped Fenris' cheek in his hand and drew him in, bringing him into a soft kiss that the elf happily returned. They stayed like this for a short while, Anders holding him as they kissed, Fenris tentatively getting used to the way Anders' tongue played along the seam of his lips and especially when it slipped past his teeth.

Making sure Fenris was preoccupied, Anders slowly ran one of his hands down the elf's cheek, along the side of his neck, and over his bicep. Trailing down his arm, past the elbow and to his wrist, Anders grabbed Fenris' hand and slowly brought it to his arousal. He felt the elf flinch at first, but then those calloused fingers were wrapping around him, still semi-slick from the grease earlier, though a lot of it had been wiped off on the bed sheets and on Anders' hips. The mage groaned at the first gentle squeeze, the first upstroke.

Pulling away only enough to speak, Fenris whispered, “Guide me.” Anders shuddered and spread his thighs apart a little further.

“Stroke it... Slowly... That's it,” Anders breathed, turning his head down to watch Fenris' dark hand pump his reddened dick, slick and precum bunching in his fist and dripping down his knuckles. Fenris kept his eyes on Anders' face, enraptured by whatever he saw there. Something urged the elf to quicken his pace, though not by much, and Anders' head lulled to the side as he let out a heavy sigh. “That's it...” He repeated, barely even audible.

His hand was warm and wet and it felt so good sliding along Anders' skin. The mage rocked his hips up on the odd upstroke, his body beginning to fall to primal reactions. He could feel that heat pooling in his abdomen, though it was unlike the sensations he felt when he masturbated. He wanted to tell Fenris to slow down, wanted to command him like he would his own hand, but the elf continued to be unpredictable, his strokes soon becoming a twist of his fist, his other hand petting Anders' thigh and making the muscles jump and jolt. He had never been so aware of where he was being touched until this moment, and the intimacy of it all made his mind fog.

Suddenly, he was latching onto Fenris' jerking wrist. Every nerve along his skin seemed to buzz with that final pulse of pleasure, and distantly he heard his slave gasp as Anders came.

Fenris only let go when Anders let out a breath and reclined back onto his bed. His hands fell away completely from the man's body, though his eyes roamed that expanse of skin greedily. He had just brought his master to pleasure. He had just put his training to good use, perhaps not completely successfully, but it was definitely not a failure. Anders stretched pleasantly on his bed, grimacing when his thigh pressed down on Fenris' mess, but he merely rolled onto his side to avoid it.

Tawny eyes peered up at Fenris, a sleepy quality to them, and the mage invitingly patted the space beside him, silently bidding the elf to join him. Fenris tensed at the offer, his eyes darting to the still frozen-over doorway. Master Danarius said they were to resume his normal lessons tomorrow. Fenris decided that this meant he shouldn't worry about Hadriana fetching him in the middle of the night for his sessions.

Sucking in a nervous breath, Fenris slowly laid himself down on Anders' bed, allowing the mage to envelop him in warm arms and tug the rumpled sheets over them.

Fenris rolled onto his side, letting Anders spoon him from behind. Feeling all of his skin pressing against him was strange, despite what they had just done moments ago. Anders didn't seem to care in the slightest, lining up their bodies until he was most comfortable, then settling down to sleep with a few last kisses to the base of Fenris' neck.

The elf did not sleep. He stayed curled in Anders' arms until a familiar tug of magic had him perking up, looking towards the doorway even as the ice melted. Hadriana stood there with her hands on her hips, a disgusted look on her tired face. Fenris swallowed down his apprehension. Perhaps he was wrong about what Danarius wanted.

Slipping out of Anders' arms was easy. Getting out of the bed to reveal his nude body was more disconcerting. Hadriana didn't seem bothered at all by the show of flesh, though she didn't even avert her eyes out of modesty.

Fenris quickly donned his leggings and tunic, then silently followed her out of the room. She re-erected the ice, ensuring Anders' privacy and security, then she began to walk off towards Danarius' office, not even gesturing for Fenris to follow. Their walk was silent, Hadriana barely even acknowledging her companion. She only stopped to knock once on Danarius' office door, then stepped to the side, standing vigil.

“Enter,” Danarius bid, and Fenris took in a calming breath before he took hold of the ornate doorknob. Twisting it open, Fenris stepped inside the room. He paused, slowly closed the door behind him, then immediately lowered himself to his knees, waiting for permission to further enter the room. Danarius didn't grant it.

“What have you learned today, slave?” Danarius asked, sounding preoccupied. Fenris didn't bother to steal a glance. All he knew of the room was that the carpet was a deep, wine red and that a grand mahogany desk sat in the very center. Danarius typically sat at the desk, Fenris assumed, as his voice generally came from that direction. All other details, Fenris had never been brave enough to discover.

“Master is correct in assuming the young Master's true intentions,” Fenris stated flatly. He wondered if Danarius could see it on him, how right he was. He wondered if he could smell it on him.

“Oh? And?” Danarius prompted, sounding only a tad more interested in their conversation. Fenris paused to take a breath and to gather his thoughts.

“Master's generosity has proven fruitful. The talents gained were performed with no drawbacks.” Fenris lied, thinking to how Anders had asked him to take, and how Fenris had hardly pleasured the man how he wanted him to. But Danarius was no mind reader, and Fenris honestly doubted the man would watch his son so closely.

“I see,” Danarius hummed, returning back to his bored demeanor. Fenris felt reassured by this. “And how will you continue from here?”

“I will continue my duties as the young Master's personal slave and bodyguard. When the young Master grows restless, I will subdue him with these talents. I will become his release.” Fenris recited the same words Danarius told him to utter since the very first night he had been brought here. What had then felt disgusting on his tongue now felt true to himself, a comforting belief that Fenris could fall back on. This was what he was meant to do.

Danarius sighed through his nose. Something was set down on the desk, something made of glass, perhaps. Something full. Fenris' ears twitched, the muscles in his neck tensed, but he kept his head down.

“You are learning quickly, Fenris. I'm proud of what I've made you.” Danarius said genuinely, and the rush of satisfaction through the elf seemed unreal. “Now that you have proven yourself as a sedative to Anders' adventurous side, there is something else we must discuss.”

“Master?”

He heard a chair scrape against the carpet. Feet padded along the floor, even in their steps. Danarius was pacing. He, like Anders, did it often when he thought deeply.

“What I will tell you now will stay within these walls. No matter how much Anders pleads, you will not give him a single hint.” Danarius instructed. Fenris nodded, though he knew his consent was a given. The pacing stopped, and Danarius spoke towards the elf, “I have an idea for Anders' seventeenth birthday gift. Tell me, have you ever heard of darkspawn?”

“No, Master,” Fenris responded, though he didn't really think he had to. Danarius knew the elf couldn't recall anything from before the procedure. He was probably just postulating.

“They're vile beasts. Grey, rotting skin. Sharp, yellowed teeth. Ghostly white eyes. Built like a human but with a brain as small as a slave's. No... smaller. All they know is blood lust and hunger. They come from underground, snatching away whoever they can get a good grip on, and they rip them apart piece by piece.”

Fenris tried not to shift where he sat, but the thought made him uncomfortable. What did this have to do with Anders' birthday? Surely Danarius wouldn't be careless enough to think the mage could tame such a beast?

“But even these mindless slaves have a leader. An Archdemon, its called. A dragon-like creature, skeletal and decaying. These Archdemons command the darkspawn like a God, telling them where to go, when to feast, who to kill. They could bring about the end of the world if they so wish...” Danarius paused his spiel, his rhythmic pacing coming to a halt. “Such a beast cannot be slain by any ordinary man.”

A hand was suddenly in Fenris' hair, forcing his head to turn up. The elf's eyes widened at the pull, and the very first thing he came to look at was the large arching window on the back wall, the curtains pulled open to look over the woods around the estate, the moon still glowing brightly this late at night. Bookshelves flanked either side of the window, filled to the brim with tomes and journals and curious tools Fenris had no name for. Empty vials were placed amongst half-full ones, the liquid within various colors. Some even glowed. One glittered like gold.

But Danarius was tugging on his hair again, and Fenris zeroed in on the mahogany desk. The surface was covered in paperwork, though it was organized neatly. A feather quill and inkwell sat beside one half-complete entry. In the center, sitting at the edge closest to the slave, sat a smaller vial, about the height of Fenris' hand, from the tip of his longest finger to the very bottom of his palm. Within the vial was a dark red liquid, though streaks of black looked to be contaminating it.

Without waiting for the elf to ask, Danarius began to explain, “Sealed within that vial is a very expensive amount of darkspawn blood. Collecting so much during a time where none roam the lands was difficult, but I believe it will be worth it. You see, elf,” Danarius had let go of his hair and instead began to pet him, and Fenris made sure his eyes stayed glued to the vial. He didn't allow his eyes to stray. He didn't allow himself to take in the bookshelves or the view out of the window. Danarius continued casually, “The only man who can kill such a beast is called a Grey Warden. And a Grey Warden, I found out, is merely a man who drank a vial of darkspawn blood.”

Danarius began to chuckle, and he stepped away from Fenris to pick up the vial of blood, “But the darkspawn blood is like a poison. Only those of the strongest will can survive it. And when they survive...” Danarius squeezed the vial to his chest, looking off into the distance introspectively, “They gain this power, this... ability to slay an Archdemon. I don't fully understand it yet, however. I'm still researching. The damned Wardens all but refuse to release any sort of information on their rituals, but I believe I've found a reliable source.”

Setting the vial back down on his desk, Danarius turned back to Fenris and smirked, “I'm confident I will perfect the ritual by his birthday. And I plan to use this ritual to... awaken more of Anders' power.”

Fenris frowned at that declaration. Danarius wanted to risk Anders' life on a gamble? He didn't understand it. Wasn't Fenris supposed to keep these sorts of things from happening?

“Master,” Fenris spoke up before he could really consider the consequences. Danarius frowned at the interruption, but he seemed to be in a good mood. Especially considering he didn't immediately lash out at him, “You have spent the past sixteen years of his life protecting him and teaching him. You have created me to ensure his survival, and I know Master has spent a lot on the procedure... So why risk this now? The young Master is already so powerful. What will you do if he perishes?”

Danarius hummed, turning his head away as he actually gave Fenris' concerns thought. It was strange, not being immediately struck for blathering on when his Master had not prompted him. The elf fidgeted where he sat, but moved nor spoke anymore.

When Danarius finally responded, his voice was quiet, thoughtful, but still assured, “Anders is a strong mage, that much is true. And because of that, I am absolutely certain he will survive the ritual.”

“But if he doesn't?” Fenris asked, and this time Danarius didn't care for the way he was doubting him. The man gave the slave a dull look, growing impatient with his attitude. He didn't even have to take a single step towards the elf to alight his body with pain, electricity zapping through his veins and making him shout.

The shock was a small one, a warning at best, but it still had Fenris collapsing onto his side and twitch with the residual shock.

As Fenris struggled to get himself back together, Danarius spat out, “You doubt Anders' power? You truly think he is so weak as to give in to the poison of darkspawn blood? Bah, you are a foolish slave to have these concerns. I know he will live because, like I had done with you, I had created and tested and formulated the perfect combination to separate him from the rest! I have personally plucked this boy from the _hundreds_ of spawn I have created! If he does not survive, then I will merely move on. And I expect you would do the same.”

Fenris kept himself on the ground, his head turned away from Danarius to keep the man from seeing his horrified expression. All this time, all these months of Fenris struggling to perfect himself for Anders, for this man he was _created_ for, and Danarius believed that he would be able to just _walk away_ from him? Anders was all Fenris knew. He was nothing without him. He could not even _live_ without him.

“Return to Anders' bedroom.” Danarius said in a subdued voice, “We will speak more of the ritual at a later date. You are dismissed.”

Pushing himself back onto his knees, Fenris bowed deeply, then promptly got to his feet and exited the office. Hadriana, still standing outside, sighed in annoyed relief.

“Finally.” She muttered, immediately walking ahead to guide Fenris back to Anders' room, “Damned slave... I don't understand why _I_ have to play bodyguard when Danarius is fucking you.”

Fenris watched her go silently, his brow furrowed. That was a new word. He could easily assume that she was referring to his private lessons, but he didn't understand why it sounded so cruel.

When she disappeared around the corner, Fenris decided to begin walking. He didn't grin when he saw she had to stop and wait for him, but he was satisfied with it all the same.

As soon as they reached Anders' bedroom, Hadriana dropped the ice barrier and gestured for Fenris inside. The elf only gave her a half-bow, a bend at the waist. She was not his Master, but she was still in charge of him when Danarius saw fit to put him in her care.

He barely even stepped into the room before Hadriana was erecting the ice wall again. Fenris gasped and stumbled forward, relieved that he didn't get caught in it, though the chill on his skin was still discomforting.

“Fenris?” Anders called out from his bed, his voice thick with sleep. The elf jerked his head towards his master, his face glowing red when he saw Anders begin to push himself up, thus bearing his naked chest for his slave. “What are you doing?”

“I-I...” Fenris bit his lip, turning his head down towards his feet, “I apologize, I... I have to... Make water.”

Anders yawned in response, reclining back on his bed and stretching himself out. “Use my chamber pot then come back to me. I'm too lazy to let you out.”

Fenris sucked in a short breath, but he obeyed. Slipping towards the attached bathroom, Fenris relieved himself, promptly cleaned the chamber pot, then washed his hands and forearms before he returned to Anders. As he crawled back into the bed, Anders began to pull him closer, only to stop and actually pout.

“You're dressed,” Anders complained, pulling Fenris down until he was laying flat on his back. “Why are you dressed?”

“I had planned to return to my bedchambers...” Fenris lied shyly, “But I didn't want to wake you either...” Anders rolled his eyes, but then he grinned and began to leisurely pluck at Fenris clothes, pulling open his tunic and sliding it up his body.

“No matter. I guess I'll just have to indulge in undressing you once more tonight.” Anders chuckled, tossing the tunic aside before he went to Fenris' leggings. Peeling them down his body, Fenris felt his chest and face grow warm. How was it that even after what they had done not too long ago _and_ enduring Danarius' punishment, Fenris could still feel his arousal stir just at being undressed by this man?

Anders chuckled at the sight of Fenris' half-risen cock, and after he tossed the leggings away, he leaned over the elf and kissed him deeply.

“Do you want to try having me again?” Anders whispered into that pointed ear of his, then proceeded to follow the edge of it with his tongue. Fenris shuddered in delight, but a snide remark came to mind, and Fenris only fleetingly considered the possible consequences before he uttered it.

“You are too lazy to drop an ice wall but you are still willing to indulge in such activities?” He pointed out, looking at his Master with the smallest smirk, but then he put on a thoughtful look and mumbled, “But I suppose, if I recall correctly, Master had not done much than lay back and have me do all the work.”

The teasing had a much-desired affect. Anders' eyes glittered in amusement before he began to chuckle. He pushed Fenris hard against the bed and moved on top of him, straddling legs and keeping their chests pressed together. Since he was taller than Fenris, he, unfortunately, could not tease his partner with a sensual rut or else he would be overwhelming the elf, and he wanted to look him in the eye. “Then perhaps I should do more this time. But if you cum the second you enter me again, I get to use your mouth instead.”

Fenris didn't even think it was a threat. His mouth watered at the thought of having his master buried in his throat, already recalling the way it looked when it was slick and pulsing. Not taking a second to think about declining his challenge, Fenris pulled Anders into a kiss and took his hand in his own.

“Summon the grease, and I will attempt your challenge.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are greatly appreciated and help me fuel my love for writing.
> 
> Kudos and bookmarks are nice as well.


	4. Happy Birthday Anders!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the ball rolls.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Mild torture? Emotional abuse. Death. Confusing Fenders moments. Hinted sex (consensual). Let me know if I should add any more tags :D

Anders felt reasonably afraid of what Danarius had been planning for his seventeenth birthday. The closer winter came, the more Danarius talked about what a big plan he had, how no other gift would amount to what Danarius would get him. How Anders wouldn't ever want another birthday after this, because they would all be drab compared to this one.

In Tevinter law, a boy became a man at sixteen. Fenris belonged to Anders legally, but he belonged to the family's House as well. In Tevinter society, a boy became a man one year after, when they were expected to acquire property or begin earning their own wealth. For an Altus like Anders, he didn't have to worry about such things. Ever since he was six, his father had arranged and signed the proper paperwork for the second estate in Minrathous to fall under Anders' name. Danarius would have given him the Qarinus estate as well, but they had already decided to leave that as the vacation estate.

From the start of the year, Anders thought all Danarius would give him was his estate. When Danarius began to brag halfway through, Anders knew he had something else up his sleeve. And Anders grew to learn that whenever Danarius bragged, it was never about anything good. Perhaps there would be an exception for Anders since he was Danarius' own flesh and blood, but Anders didn't put too much hope in that. He was lucky enough Danarius had handed Fenris over to him after the Games without expecting some sort of reimbursement, especially after all the work he put into the elf.

Of course, Anders owning Fenris didn't stop Danarius from stealing the elf away for hours at a time. The elf wouldn't talk about his affairs with Danarius, which was strange enough for him—Anders was certain he earned enough trust from him to be told anything and everything. He definitely confided in Fenris a lot more than an Altus was supposed to in a slave. Was it so wrong to expect the same back?

But Anders didn't demand information from him. Instead, he sulked in his room whenever the elf was called away, then proceeded to ignore him the hour after his return. He would have gone longer, but he so very hated not running his mouth off at the elf. Fenris accused him of merely enjoying the sound of his own voice on occasion. Anders was disappointed that he couldn't defend himself without feeling like a liar.

The remaining month went on like this, Fenris disappearing, Anders sulking, and Danarius gloating. His birthday approached quickly, and despite Anders' attempts at coercing the truth out of his slave, Fenris kept his lips firmly sealed. It was irritating, frustrating, and it excited Anders to no end. His wild imagination ran away with him, crafting up grand schemes or gifts, each one growing more convoluted than the last.

He had blown this secret gift so far out of proportion that a holiday trip to the Qarinus estate seemed remarkably dull. Anders pouted the whole boat ride there, unable to be roused even by Fenris' most desperate attempts. It was a challenge for Anders—surely anyone would crack even a smile when a gorgeous elf like Fenris crawled into their laps in only their underthings. But no, Anders was an Altus and a spoiled one at that. He was going to put all his time and energy into hating this birthday.

In the end, such a feat wouldn't be so hard.

They arrived in Qarinus late at night, the day before Anders' birthday. Danarius hadn't taken Anders attitude personally throughout the whole boat ride—in fact, Anders suspected Danarius had _enjoyed_ his attitude—and he dragged his son inside with him as Fenris and the other slaves handled the luggage. Dinner had already been prepared for them and they ate together, despite how long ago the sun had fallen. When Fenris reported to the dining room to announce they were all unpacked and settled in, Danarius grinned.

“Perfect. Fantastic. Now we can begin...” He said, looking directly at Anders. The young man frowned and shifted in his seat, pushing the remainder of his meal around his plate.

“Begin what? The most overplayed birthday in existence? There isn't even a party,” Anders complained, biting back a yawn. Eating had made him even more drowsy than he had been when they arrived. Fenris approached Anders' chair, but he didn't kneel. Anders cast him a curious look but turned back to Danarius when he began to laugh.

“I can't wait to see you eat those words,” Danarius replied smoothly, lifting a hand and gesturing at Fenris, who nodded his head in silent understanding. Anders began to turn to look at his slave, but a blindfold was thrown over his eyes and pulled tight seconds before he could move. Anders yelped and scrabbled against the cloth, but Fenris tied it tight and grabbed his wrists to stop him, pulling Anders to his feet instead. The chair scraped against the stone floor loudly when Anders knocked it back in his struggle.

“Master, please be calm! This is all part of the surprise,” Fenris told Anders, and the Altus' struggles weakened, then ceased completely. Fenris' grip on his wrists relaxed, releasing one of his hands but keeping the other in his hand.

“This better be good,” Anders sighed, reluctantly letting Fenris lead him away from the dining hall, though he still wordlessly complained and dragged his feet as he was walked. He and Fenris—and Danarius, if the extra set of footfalls ahead of him was any clue—made their way down halls and stairs, Fenris keeping his wrists in a tight hold. The elf was warm and stable, whispering to Anders whenever a step or turn was coming up. Anders hadn't been in Qarinus since he was a child, and he couldn't mentally track where they were heading. All he knew was they were going down, down, down. The warm air of Qarinus turned into a sticky dampness as they walked, and even behind the blindfold, Anders knew it was getting exceptionally darker, no stars or candle or moon to guide their way.

Finally, they stopped. Fenris guided Anders to a chair, sitting him down gently, then asked, “In order for Master Danarius to give you your gift, I will need to bind your hands behind you. Will you give me permission, My Prince?” He asked in a low, rough voice, and it was all Anders could do not to shiver in delight. He loved it when Fenris spoke to him like this, and the damned elf knew it. He couldn't fathom why he would dare speak this way to him in front of Danarius, but Anders couldn't find it in himself to care. He loved pissing Danarius off anyways.

“Oh, just because you asked nicely, “Anders sighed, already moving his arms behind his back and around the chair. Fenris chuckled softly, and soon rope was being looped around his wrists and the back of the chair, restraining him tightly. Fenris' breath played against Anders' neck as he worked, and Anders could feel the goosebumps rising along his skin.

“Will My Prince also allow me to bind his ankles?” Fenris whispered right into his ear, and this time Anders _did_ tremble. He let out a breath, wondering if Danarius was watching them, and he forced himself to swallow back a few hundred witty remarks that danced on the tip of his tongue.

“I suppose,” Anders mumbled instead. The elf moved away from his back and knelt before him, tying his right ankle first, then his left. Anders gave all three ropes a test, pleasantly surprised by how strong they were. Fenris backed away from him.

“I shall remove the blindfold now, Master,” Fenris announced, and seconds later, the cloth was being pulled away from his eyes. The first thing Anders saw was Fenris sitting in a similarly wooden chair right in front of him, so close their knees were almost touching. The elf had a smile on his lips, but it looked almost forced, a little nervous. His pupils were pinpricks in the midst of green, even in the darkness. He was afraid. Anders' brow quirked and he quickly glanced around the room.

Thus noticing the six _other_ people there with them. Danarius, who stood behind Fenris' chair, smirked at Anders, and he said slyly, “And you said this wasn't a party.”

Anders' mood fell in seconds, and he looked around at these strangers—no, not strangers, these _Magisters—_ in terror. Why had they all come? What was the point of binding and blindfolding Anders to bring him down to this—this basement? Anders struggled again, but the ropes were tight, and the more he wiggled, the tighter they grew. Fenris put a hand on Anders' knee, hoping to soothe him, but it did nothing. What did Fenris know about what Danarius had planned? He had obviously helped Danarius bring Anders down here, had tied him up and knew that these Magisters would be here... did he know what else was going to happen? Why did he do nothing when Anders was so obviously afraid?

“Anders, allow me to introduce you to someone,” Danarius was saying, and Anders had to force himself to focus on his father's words before panic overwhelmed him. Danarius gestured to a man standing behind Anders, and he had to twist and squirm until he could look over his shoulder. Even then, he could see nothing more than the underside of this man's beard, along with his decorative robes. “Archon Davan.” Danarius introduced, and Anders turned back to face his father with wide eyes. _The_ Archon Davan?! In the flesh?! Here?! “He has been very interested in you, Anders. He is proud of all you have done to prove yourself, and is planning to take you on as his apprentice once we return to Minrathous.”

Anders' mouth worked dumbly, no noise coming, his vocal chords frozen in absolute shocked. He twisted, trying to face Archon Davan directly, but he just couldn't move properly in the chair. He struggled against the ropes again, irritated, and he looked once more at his father, “If the Archon is here, I should be standing to greet him, not--!”

Danarius' smile stretched, and Anders began to piece it all together. The Archon was impressed with Anders, but Anders needed to show him, in the flesh, that he was worth his apprenticeship. This was a test. Anders' shoulders relaxed and he let out a soft sigh, a smile playing at his own lips. “Oh, I see,” He began, flexing his fingers and letting magic fill his palms. He would burn through the ropes and free himself, it was easy. “Then I am to prove myself to the Archon, am I not?”

“You are,” Danarius responded with a grin, and he glanced to the Magisters flanking him. The two of them stepped away and slipped out of Anders' sight, though Fenris' eyes tracked them carefully. Even in the basement, tied up and with people Anders and Danarius trusted, Fenris was ready to protect. Though with no sword at his back, Anders wasn't sure how he would do so.

“Shall we begin the procedure?” A voice from behind—presumably Davan—spoke, and Anders felt his blood turn cold. Procedure? Not a test?

“Father?” Anders whispered, his eyes wide and fearful. Memories of what Fenris had gone through only but a year ago flashed in his mind. Was he to be expecting a blade to slice into his skin and mark him with lyrium just as his slave was? Was he to be tortured and healed by the Archon so that he himself was no more than a mindless drone, desperate to do Davan's bidding? Danarius ignored him.

“The circle is prepared. The candles lit. The blood ready.” Danarius replied to Archon Davan, straightening his sleeves at first before he began to roll one of them up. “We must make a connection with the Fade before we present them.”

“And you're certain this will work?” Archon Davan questioned, a hand going to Anders' shoulder, but the Altus jolted away from him. Davan's hand grabbed him again and jerked him back against the chair. Fenris' eyes shot right up to the Archon and his nostrils flared, but he did nothing.

“I have researched this very procedure for many decades, Archon. I have crafted the perfect child, found the strongest warrior, out of all of Thedas. These two will be the key.” Danarius gestured widely at Anders and Fenris, a cruel smirk on his lips, “Do not doubt me.”

“And of our agreement? I get the boy if you get the recognition?” Davan asked, and both Anders and Fenris looked at one another, caught off guard. When Danarius nodded, Anders felt a lump form in his throat.

“Father, what's going on?” Anders demanded, his heart racing in his chest. Fenris' hand on his knee felt like it was the only thing keeping him grounded, while the Archon's hand on his shoulder felt like he was being pulled into pieces. “Procedure? Agreement? What—What are you going to do to me?” Danarius' eyes flickered down to Anders, a coldness tucked away in them. Paranoia made its way under Anders' skin. Was he going to be sacrificed? He heard stories of blood magic and sacrificial rituals to boost one's magical potential, but he would never have thought he would have to fear such things.

“Let's begin.” Davan was announcing, and he stepped away from Anders, his hand leaving his shoulder. Anders felt himself begin to shake. He looked at Fenris, wide-eyed and desperate. The elf's ears twitched, his fingers digging into Anders' knee cap.

“It will be okay,” Fenris whispered to him, though he hardly sounded convinced himself, “They will make you into something truly amazing.” Anders could only shake his head at him, and all at once he wanted to tear away from Fenris' comforting hand.

“The blood,” Danarius demanded, and a vial was being handed to him, small and thin, the size of his hand, from the tip of his longest finger to the base of his palm, with only enough space for a splash of the dark liquid within. Danarius approached Anders from the left, uncorking the vial and showing it to his son. The smell that came from it was putrid, foul and sickening as if the blood itself were diseased. Anders reeled back instantly, grimacing, but Danarius grabbed him by the jaw and jerked his head forward.

“Swallow it, my son.” He whispered as if Anders were but a child again and Danarius was feeding him a tonic. Anders whimpered when the glass pressed to his lips, but the liquid was filling his mouth, impossibly warm and heavy. It coated his tongue thickly, and he could taste the sin laced within. He gagged once, twice, then swallowed it all down, though a thick film still coated his mouth and teeth. With the vial emptied, he jerked his head away and wheezed, swallowing air to try and get the taste of rot out, and resorted to merely spitting it away.

“Good, Anders,” Danarius was praising him, running his calloused hand through Anders' hair, the short strands falling back into place as Danarius' hand settled on the back of his neck, “Let the taint fill you. Do not let it overcome you.”

“T-taint...?” Anders gasped, trembling now, and feeling absolutely exhausted.

“The blood of a darkspawn,” Archon Davan was saying, and Anders' mind reeled with what that would mean for him. His confusion turned to delirious rage, and he resumed his attempts at freedom wholeheartedly.

“You—You--!” Anders jerked out, and when he still could not get free, he turned a teary glare upon his father, “You've poisoned me! You've tainted me—damned me to the death!” He was wheezing now, and he could feel the blood settling in his stomach, burning as if it were an acid he had just swallowed. He groaned in pain, lurching as forward as his bonds would allow, and Fenris set his hands on his shoulders to sit him upright.

“Lyrium,” Davan commanded, and Fenris closed his eyes and suddenly illuminated, the lyrium etched into his skin glittering as if he were a raw vein within the mountains. His hands on Anders' shoulders sunk into the mage's body, creating a connection between them. Anders' body jerked with the sudden wave of magic flowing into him. Anders moaned, a mixture of pain and delight. The blood in his stomach felt as if it were boiling. Anders let out a cry, his eyes squeezing shut. He could see the Fade behind his lids. He was going to die.

“And finally...” Danarius said, his sentence being left open-ended. Another vial was placed into his hand, small, fat, and holding just enough liquid to fill a thimble. The cork sealing it was adorned with a dropper. Danarius filled it with the black viscous liquid inside, and he held it over Anders' face. Davan's fingers pressed into Anders' mouth, forcing his jaw apart, and a single drop of the blackness fell unto Anders' tongue.

The moment he swallowed, Anders felt a pain he had thought he would never know. He threw back his head and screamed, Davan's fingers slipping from his lips, Fenris' hands sliding further into his chest, still pumping wave after wave of lyrium into him. His skin felt like it was on fire. His innards felt like they were melting. His eyes were wide open, and yet he saw nothing of the basement or the six Magisters surrounding him. His ears couldn't even hear their words, only his own screaming, loud and rough enough to make his throat grow raw. Images were flashing in his mind's eye, a horde of mutilated and diseased creatures, Thedas being bathed in tainted blood and waste, a beast not unlike a dragon bursting from its grave, its body crafted of sinuous muscle and bone, its eyes glowing a sinful red. Its jaw unhinged with a cry that wracked Anders' body, and Anders answered it with a shout of his own.

“Begin the chant,” Danarius ordered the others, and they all stepped out of the circle surrounding Fenris and Anders. The candle flames flared when they began to intone a chant, their voices murmured and yet melodic. The fire glowed green, and the circle drawn in blood beneath the two of them glittered with power. Fenris watched the Magisters and the Archon quietly, though he flinched with every new tearing scream from Anders. Midway through their chant, the men bared their arms and lifted their weapon of choice, daggers or knives or even a sharp metal claw attached to their finger like a ring. They sliced their skin in sync, and the blood fell from their flesh and into the circle, the blood lines suddenly bursting in color and magic. Fenris' head jolted away, his eyes squeezing shut from the blinding light, but his arms stayed within his master.

Fenris gritted his teeth when he felt the lyrium in his skin begin to burn. It felt like they were being torn from his skin like he was separating from his own body, and like he was falling all at once. His hands in Anders' chest cavity were numb to all sensation, as they usually felt when he phased through people like this. A cry left his throat unbidden, but he choked it back as best as he could, especially when Anders' own screams seemed to peter off into silence. Fear filled the elf, though he kept his eyes closed. He could still feel the pulsing of Anders' heart, but Fenris still feared the possible death of his master after this procedure.

A hand wrapped its way around Fenris' arm, making the elf jolt and blink his eyes open in surprise. Right in front of him was Anders, his hair whipping about his face as if they were in a gale, his hands unbound and the man silent. They were no longer in the basement, Fenris saw, but they weren't really anywhere else, either. The world around them was blurry, a haze of green and yellow and black, but Anders held onto him tightly.

“Don't let go,” Anders told him, and Fenris nodded firmly, knowing he wouldn't have even if demanded to. Anders turned his head down, and Fenris felt inclined to do the same, though he instantly regretted it moments later. Beneath them, the rocky, gray ground was rushing at them at a dangerous speed. His eyes widened and his mouth opened to shout, but Anders clung to him tighter and whispered, “Don't look up.”

Fenris blinked and looked at Anders. He pulled himself closer to the mage. Look up? Why would he look up if they were obviously falling to their deaths? He was about to shout at the mage, question why he was so calm, but when Anders tilted his head back and closed his eyes, Fenris felt his words die on his lips. Fenris shut his eyes as well, but he curled himself against Anders' chest. If they were to die, he would do so in the arms of his Prince.

His feet touched the ground as if he merely stepped out of bed, the rock soft and a little moist beneath his toes. No pain came from the collision. The wind was gone, but Fenris could still hear it distantly. When he dared to open his eyes again, he found himself and Anders standing solidly on the rocks that they had been plummeting towards. He looked up at his mage, seeing Anders was staring at something above them. Fenris moved to look, but Anders put a hand on the back of his neck and pulled him into his chest.

“Don't look up,” He reminded in a quiet voice. Fenris frowned, wanting to know what it was that had caught the mage's attention, but he dared not disobey his Prince. With a nod, Fenris wrapped his suddenly free arms around Anders' middle, closing his eyes and allowing himself to enjoy the sensation of being pressed against Anders' body.

Anders held Fenris tightly, taking all the comfort and reassurance he could from the elf, and he continued to stare down the grand beast that stood before them. Its skin rotted off its body, its bone bare and white, its eyes melted from its sockets, and flames took its place. The dragon-like beast, similar but not the same to the one he had seen in his visions, regarded the two of them quietly, the only sound coming from it the crackling of the flame within its form. The beast had no voice, but something like understanding translated between Anders and it, and Anders knew it was from the blood he had drank.

 _Young mage_ , the creature whispered into Anders' mind in a language that was both foreign and yet so very familiar, its voice quiet and gentle, like a father, like a lover, like a King, _You have been chosen to receive me. You have been blessed to become my vessel. You wield my Flame already, now accept the rest of my knowledge, my wisdom, my power._

“I don't want it,” Anders refused aloud, not knowing if this mental link between them worked both ways. He stared the creature down as if he were the dragon and it the man. The dragon's tail curled, wagging listlessly in the air at a slow pace. Humor felt palpable between them.

 _You have no choice in the matter. Accept what is being given to you or else burn from within._ It warned. Anders didn't respond immediately, but he decided to sidestep the current offer.

“And what is it that is being given to me? Your power? But who are you?” Anders questioned, and at this, the creature actually tilted its head back and laughed, or made a noise close to it, the sound hollow and dead, but loud. Fenris jolted against Anders' body, his body beginning to tremble at the unknown noise behind him. He knew they weren't alone the moment they touched the ground, but he could only imagine was sort of creature could make such a strong noise.

_I am one of the Old Gods, the very being your people pray to. I am the Tutor of Mages, one of many Fathers of Magic, the bringer of the Third Blight. I am the Dragon of Fire, God of Destruction, both within and without. I am Toth. And you, young mage, will be my vessel into the Waking World. Together, with your life and my power, we shall bring the Tevinter Imperium to the Golden City. Together, we will unlock the secrets of the Fade. Together, we will rule the world, and watch as those beneath us suffer. Accept my gift, child. Wield my Flame the way he was meant to be._

“He?” Anders whispered, his brows furrowing. He looked down at Fenris, shaking in his arms, and he tightened his grip on the man almost instinctively. Anders knew Danarius thought of the elf as merely a weapon and a slave, but the idea of Fenris actually being a tool for Anders to use was... revolting.

“You will not have me,” Anders decided, sternly. Toth stared down at him, no longer amused. He showed it in the low growl that echoed from his half-collapsed throat.

_If you will not accept my aid willingly, then I shall force it unto you. One last chance, child. Accept my gift and witness life through the eyes of a god. Deny it, and you will suffer a life of pain, abandonment, and terror. You may run from me, but you will never lose me. I am forever bound to you, buried within your blood, settled in the deepest niche of your mind. My voice will be all you hear within you; your thoughts will no longer be your own. I will fester inside of you like a disease, and when you are at your weakest, your most desperate, I will overwhelm you, and you and I will become one._

“Yet if I accept, we will join anyways,” Anders pointed out, frowning, “No. I will not be your puppet. Torture me if you must. Kill me if you will. I will never wield your Flame, nor will I become your vessel. I will outrun you. And if I do not, then I will destroy you instead.”

The Archdemon reared his head back, his decaying lips curling back around his teeth, and he hissed in rage. His head shook violently, side to side, and his bony claws struck the ground.

_You will see, one day. You will submit to me, one day._

“And I shall kill myself the day after.” Anders declared. Fenris clung to him tighter, his eyes opening in a panic. Anders wasn't entirely sure if he could hear Toth as well, but even out of context, Anders' side of the conversation was as startling as it seemed. It must have been alarming to the elf. He offered Fenris a meek smile to comfort him.

 _No. I shall kill you now. You are not worthy of my gift, and you will not take it from me._ Toth said to him, his tattered wings stretching out behind him, his tail curling like a snake ready to strike. The Archdemon took a step towards Anders and Fenris, but Anders stood his ground.

A mage without a staff was still powerful, but their magic was often scattered, unfocused, dangerous. Anders had no staff with him, nothing to focus his powers, but he had Fenris curled against him, the lyrium in his body thrumming, and when he called upon his magic to craft a shield around the two of them, Fenris' body glowed from the power. The elf gasped and threw his head back, though out of pain or pleasure, Anders couldn't be sure. All he knew was that instead of the basic force field Anders typically could cast, something akin to a wall made of pure energy and power was erected between the Archdemon and the two misplaced beings in the Fade. The Archdemon roared, the noise making Fenris flinch and stare at Anders once more, but the mage focused on the shield, watching as it pulsed bright blue with his magic.

 _Foolish child! Your magic will not stop me!_ Toth cried, swiping his claws against the barrier, throwing his body into it, even striking at it with his tail, but the barrier still stood. Anders' stare hardened, and he raised his hand, crafting up the energy for another spell. Fenris groaned in his arms, leaning heavily against Anders' torso and still clinging to him. His body was trembling.

“You may be an Old God, but you have been gone from the Waking World for far too long,” Anders said to him, summoning forth a crushing prison and finding himself awed when it grew large enough to trap the entire beast within it. Toth's body jolted, his muscles shaking under the weight of his power, but he fought against the prison. “You have taught us your magic, but so have many others. You are but a fragment remaining in the Fade, relying on a human to provide a vessel for you. You are deplorable.” With a gesture of his hand, the weight of the prison increased, and Toth collapsed onto the ground, though he still struggled to keep his head aloft. His burning eyes stared at Anders, the flame licking high along his brow. His teeth bared once more, but he couldn't spend the energy to snarl. “I will end you once and for all. Damn your powers.”

Toth collapsed once more, laying on the ground, no longer strong enough to fight against the prison. His eyes still flickered in rage, his claws still dug into the gravel, and in a growling tone, he whispered into Anders' mind, _Then kill me, fool. But be prepared to accept the consequences. You have ingested the taint. You have embraced the Joining, like many Grey Wardens before you. Upon my death, you will harbor my soul anyways, and you will perish._

Anders stared evenly at the Archdemon before him, considering his words quietly. Fenris was still shaking in his hold, his skin alight, his brow growing sweaty. The power it took to reinforce the barrier and the crushing prison was taking its toll on the elf. Slowly, Anders relaxed the prison. Fenris let out a gasp of relief, crumpling to the ground and taking Anders with him. Together, they knelt in the Fade, Anders now keeping his arm around Fenris to hold him up. The elf tucked his face against Anders' shoulder, panting hard. Anders brought a hand up to wipe the sweat from his forehead away, and he whispered, “I'm sorry... I hate putting you through that...”

Fenris blinked up at Anders, then chuffed at him and closed his eyes once more, “I am well, My Prince,” He told him, though the way he shook and panted didn't prove his claim. Anders held him still, and he turned his gaze back to the Archdemon, who remained laying on the ground. The silence that stretched between them was almost tangible with how heavy it was. When the demon did speak, it was quiet, meek.

 _I have met few with such power._ He began, slowly raising his head, though the muscles in his neck still shook, _Especially one not naturally inclined to walk the Fade in their dreams. And especially one who is but a Spirit Healer._

“I know more than healing spells,” Anders argued pointedly, and that made Toth chuckle, his head lowering again, obviously weak.

 _Ah, yes... even in these times, the allure to be powerful in Tevinter is too great. You are nothing more than a Spirit Healer. Not only in your magical prowess but in your personality, in your very being. Such a mage to be my vessel is... laughable. And yet, I am moved by your sheer strength, even if it is my Flame augmenting it._ Toth eyed Fenris, but he did not linger on him. _You have proven to me your unshakable strength. You may not desire my power, but I shall give it to you nonetheless. Though you are a Healer, the promise of something more lies beneath your skin. I shall have it upon your death, in exchange for my abilities. Will you accept?_

“What would such an agreement entail in the end? You acquire my corpse at the end of my life... and what will you do with it?” Anders questioned, watching as the Archdemon closed his eyes, relaxing where he lay.

 _I will do more with your body than you will at the time._ He said evasively, and when Anders scowled and huffed at him, Toth relented, _I shall begin a new Blight. In your body, I will hide amongst the humans. I will use my cloak to reign supreme. And when the world falls to me, I will rule as a God once more._

“So people will die,” Anders said, and Toth laughed at him again. The creature looked at Anders, as if he had won an argument, then he shifted his head against the ground.

In a mutter, Toth replied, _Spirit Healer._ Anders grimaced, and he turned his head away, looking at Fenris instead, who looked to be doing better now that he had time to recuperate. His body was still thrumming with light quakes since Anders had a better mind to not let the barrier fall.

People always die. _What will it matter to you what the future holds, anyways? You will be dead. I will merely inhabit your body, like a demon would any other corpse. My actions will not be yours. And who is to say that those in the future will not deserve it?_ Toth questioned, his lips pulling back in a daunting form of a smile.

“It matters,” Anders replied stubbornly, turning his head down so he could look at Fenris, who had his eyes closed and looked as if he was sleeping in his arms. “I do not want to be the reason for the Blight after next.”

At that, Toth blinked, and his head rose once more. They looked at one another, one curious and the other with trepidation, then Toth whispered, _There is already another Blight...?_

“Yes.” Anders replied without hesitation, and only then did he realize how strange it was to be so sure of something he should know nothing about, “I mean... I think. When I drank the tainted blood, I... saw snippets. Visions. Another Archdemon, different from you. Rallying its forces underground, I think.” This caused Toth to become thoughtful, and Anders grimaced. “Perhaps I'm wrong,” He began to correct himself, but Toth silenced him with a huff.

 _You are not. You are a Grey Warden. You would know of such things._ Toth claimed, and even before Anders could dispute that he wasn't a Grey Warden, Toth began to explain, _You partook in the Joining. You have survived the taint thus far. And when you agree to my terms, I will allow you and the Flame to wake, and you will be haunted by nightmares of darkspawn and whispers of self-sacrifice within the Deep Roads. You will be as all Grey Wardens are, a warrior, a victim, a fool in_ _a_ _metal sheet._

“My father made me a Warden?” Anders huffed out, and Fenris opened his eyes to look up at him, surprised, “That's a shitty birthday present.”

“My Prince, you can't be telling the truth,” Fenris whispered, his voice weak, and Anders wondered if even holding up the barrier was becoming too much for him, “Master Danarius wished to gift you with this strength, the strength of a Warden. He planned to perform a procedure upon you, like what he had done to me, to augment your strength to unrivaled prowess. He had planned on presenting you to the Archon afterward, to show him that you are worthy of the apprenticeship. I... thought you would be happy.”

Anders sighed at that, touched by the sheer guilt in Fenris' eyes, and he decided not to answer. He brushed his dark hair out of his face, pausing when he spied a sprig of white amongst the black. Chalking it up to the Fade being the Fade, Anders turned back to the Archdemon. “So you will not let us go if I do not agree to your terms? That seems unfair.”

 _It is but the will of Gods,_ Toth shot back, good humored, and Anders scoffed at him. Toth leaned his head against the barrier, and Anders saw it pulse from the weight against it, _I will not allow you to live without proving I am here to those who so faithfully worked to my aid. To send you back with nothing will be a slap in the face to those who have done all they could to see to it that my reign did not end with my death so long ago. I must respond to their loyalty with something._

“And the death of millions is that something?” Anders shot out, bitter.

 _The gift of my power to their child will be._ Toth replied, unfazed by Anders' tone.

“My Prince,” Fenris' voice came from his arms, and Anders looked down at the elf, seeing his eyes half-lidded and his skin looking remarkably pale, “I am... not so well.”

 _You have been taking your power from the Flame for too long. It shall devour him soon._ Toth mentioned, a smirk stretching on that giant maw of his. _You are running out of time to argue, child._

Anders felt panic bubbling in his stomach, and he brushed Fenris' hair from his face, trying to keep him awake, but the elf was beginning to fall. Sleeping in the Fade was never a good idea. Without thinking much more on it, Anders dropped the barrier, and slowly, Toth pushed himself to his feet.

“Take whatever you wish of me. Harbor my corpse when I die. Begin the Blight after the next. I don't care, just ensure Fenris does not perish.” Anders demanded, looking up at the hulking creature before him. Toth grinned at him, all teeth and rotting flesh, then he bowed his head--easily the size of Anders' torso.

 _You have my word,_ Toth promised, and he leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together gently. In a flash of fire and Fade-green light, the Archdemon shimmered out of existence. Anders felt a rush of power and _something_ flow through him, causing his body to shudder, go rigid, and his eyes close.

When he opened them, he found himself bound to a chair in the basement of the estate in Qarinus. Fenris sat hunched over his own lap before him, but he was beginning to stir. Around them, the Magisters had ceased their chanting. Danarius, still standing behind Fenris' chair, stared at Anders expectantly. Davan was still nowhere in sight.

“Well?” One Magister whispered, and Anders blinked twice, unsure if he actually felt any different. His arms were sore, his throat raw, and his lap was sticky with vomit. He didn't remember vomiting.

“Worst party,” Anders groaned out, letting his head fall forward. His stomach rolled, but it was empty, and he could do nothing more than gag.

“Anders...” Danarius mumbled, and he sounded disappointed in him as if Anders was had merely been caught fainting and slipping into the Fade. Anders glared up at his father, noticing the scowl, the creased brow, and he scoffed at him.

“My Prince,” Fenris' soft voice whispered to him, and Anders looked down at the elf in surprise, seeing how tired he still was. He truly used too much of his lyrium while in the Fade...

Anders found himself reaching forward, taking Fenris' hands in his own despite a handful of gasps that came from around them. He tilted his head, trying to meet his eye, and he whispered, “Hey, it's alright. I have you.” He closed his eyes and tapped into his own magic, summoning forth a spell of healing to push into Fenris, and both he and the elf jolted when the pulse became a wave. Anders quickly stamped back on his power, startled by the sheer force of it, and Fenris—wide awake and rejuvenated—looked at the mage in awe.

In the back of his mind, Anders thought he heard chuckling.

“My Prince--” Fenris began to say, but Anders cut him off with a nod of his head, looking down at his hands in wonder.

“I know... I didn't think...” Anders whispered, unable to voice it aloud. Toth truly had given him his power. It was almost overwhelming, though Anders couldn't even feel it when he was not using it.

“Your arms,” Fenris was saying suddenly, and Anders blinked at him before he looked back down at his hands. Nothing seemed amiss to him. He turned them over twice more, then shook his head and looked at Fenris for further explanation. The elf swallowed, blinked, then mumbled, “The rope has been burned through.”

Anders frowned, then finally realized what had gone wrong. He turned around, seeing the rope hanging loosely around the back of the chair, the section that held his wrists together singed apart. His arms had somehow slipped free from the tight bind without a burn, and not only that, but his ankles were free as well. He lifted one foot as if to test it, and the Magisters around him began to whisper amongst themselves.

“He has been gifted!” Davan was announcing, excitement curling in his voice. Anders turned his gaze up, finally coming face to face with the Archon Davan, and found him to be, surprisingly, remarkably plain. His hair was jet black, his beard long with a braid in the center. He wore extravagant robes befitting an Archon, but the rest of him wasn’t very impressionable. The Magisters began to applaud, cheering for themselves more than they were cheering for Anders’ survival through the ritual. Even Danarius clapped his hands, though he still looked a little bitter. Danarius must know something didn’t go as planned, but Anders didn’t want to find out what that was. As far as he was concerned, Anders came out victorious, though with a touch heavier baggage.

 _They applaud for me._ A thought echoed in Anders’ mind, and the mage knew then that Toth was very much within him and aware. He tried to converse with him, to think back to him how he was awake in Anders’ consciousness, but he soon figured that that wasn’t exactly how it worked, especially when all that echoed back to him were his own thoughts.

At least, he thought they were his…

“How does it feel, Danarius? Your experiments have worked!” Davan asked, absolutely thrilled without abandon, “And now, I have possibly the strongest apprentice at my disposal!”

Danarius smiled wryly, his eyes leveling with Anders before he nodded his head, “It is… gratifying.” He said humbly, but Anders knew his father too well. Danarius was truly upset by the outcome. “Alas, we shall stay in Qarinus for a fortnight. I wish to see to my son’s training away from the prying eyes of Minrathous, you see. Such power is sure to cause a spectacle, especially when it is untamed.”

Davan was nodding even before Danarius finished his excuse. He held his hands up and said quickly, “All is understood. Take your time, my friend. I shall welcome your return to Minrathous with open arms.” Then, Davan turned his gaze upon Anders, settling his hands on his shoulders to squeeze. Addressing him directly for the first time all night, Davan simply said, “I cannot wait for you to begin your apprenticeship.”

Anders had nothing to say back to him. Davan took his silence gently, patted his shoulder, then turned and left, bringing with him the entourage of Magisters. When Anders, Danarius, and Fenris were finally alone, Anders looked at his father, rage burning in his eyes. Danarius sneered at him, all fatherly love gone from him.

“Don’t look at me like that, you petulant child. You do not know all I have sacrificed to obtain this.” Danarius scoffed, but Anders didn’t lower his gaze or relax his expression.

“You could have killed me,” Anders said, and Danarius’ lips pulled into a cold smirk.

“Then you would not have been worthy,” Danarius replied with a shrug.

“You would sacrifice your only son?” Anders wailed, hurt echoing in his words.

“Trust me, I have plenty for backup.” Danarius huffed, and Anders reared back as if the man had struck him. And to be truthful, it felt to Anders as if he had. His eyes turned down and, consequently, onto Fenris, who was sitting rigid, his own eyes averted, but wide. It was not a slave’s place to eavesdrop on his Master’s conversations, but he hardly had a choice. He hadn’t been dismissed, and therefore could not leave Anders. Besides, Fenris usually never left Anders while he was in someone else’s company, someone not paid to keep his life safe. And currently, to both Fenris and Anders, Danarius had no interest for Anders’ safety.

“The procedure was supposed to wipe you clean, create a fresh slate for the Archon and me to work off of, not at all unlike Fenris,” Danarius continued to prattle, revealing what, in his mind, had gone wrong, “How you managed to keep your vexatious personality is beyond me. If anything, it should be an echo of Toth speaking to me, not my own son with a touch more power.

 _Impudent._ The word echoed in Anders’ mind, and his rage increased, _He is merely interested in his own gain. He is not loyal._

 _I want to kill him_.

“No,” Anders gasped, startled by his murderous thoughts, and his outburst only served to confuse Danarius and Fenris, though Fenris hid his with well-practiced training. Anders suddenly ducked his head, his cheeks coloring with embarrassment, and Danarius scoffed at him, taking the gesture as an act of submission.

“Get out of my sight.” Danarius spat, “We will see what you can do tomorrow, see if what you gained is actually anything remarkable.”

_Kill him kill him kill him_

Anders got to his feet abruptly, grabbed Fenris’ wrist, and he yanked the elf along with him, dragging him out if the basement and back to the ground floor. He didn’t stop walking, his grip tightening on Fenris’ wrist, and it was only when the slave let out a subdued whimper did Anders stop and turn. He looked down at where he held Fenris, then gasped and jerked away. His anger had filtered into his magic—something that usually only happened to a novice mage—and he had burned a hand-shaped print into Fenris’ arm.

“Oh, Maker!” Anders cried, holding out his hands and letting them hang around Fenris’ injured wrist, but he refused to touch him. He was even afraid to use his healing magic, it was so potent and uproarious, and such chaotic magic could do so much more harm than healing.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Anders demanded, but his words warbled and his eyes grew glassy. Tears fell down his cheeks, and he did his best to ignore them. Fenris let Anders flounder around his wound, but the lack of healing coming from the mage was concerning.

“My Prince…” Fenris whispered, but Anders ignored him. His eyes squeezed shut, his hands clamping down on Fenris' injury, trying to focus on reigning in his magic so he could just _heal_. “My Prince,” Fenris said again, a bit louder. Anders gritted his teeth, shame swirling in his breast at the sound of Fenris’ voice. His magic flickered in his palms, the force tangible beneath his skin. The magic glowed bright blue, encompassing Fenris' wrist like water, and the burn began to heal away. But as Anders continued to heal him, the blue glow began to grow along Fenris' forearm. The elf's ears twitched, the sensation not unwelcome, but it began to make his limb tingle as if it had been asleep. The further up Anders' magic grew, the more of his arm fell numb.

Anders' hands began to tremble. More tears fell, rolling down his chin and dripping onto the back of Fenris' hand. The slave's heart pounded. Fenris swore he could feel Anders' pain. The betrayal he felt. The overwhelming abandonment. Seeing his Master crying before him always hurt Fenris deep in his chest, but this... it almost felt as if Fenris himself had been thrown out by Danarius.

When his wrist was healed, Anders was too distraught to notice. Fenris tried to pull his wrist away, but Anders' grip on him tightened. “Let me heal it,” the mage begged, his eyes still squeezed shut as more tears fell. Fenris felt his eyes water at the scene.

“Anders,” He whispered, low and secretive. Hearing his own name on Fenris' lips jolted the mage back to the present, and the blue glow faded. His hand stayed cradling Fenris' wrist, his eyes downcast and blurry. Fenris lifted his free hand and tried to wipe them away, but even more fell. Fenris didn't have the words to comfort him, so instead he turned his hand in Anders' grip and he pulled him against his chest. Wrapping his arms around him, he could feel the minute trembling in the mage's muscles, could feel his labored gasping as he tried not to sob.

“I don't know what's happening to me...” Anders whispered, his very voice shaking and filled with emotion, “It hurts so much...” He tucked his head against Fenris' shoulder, wailing softly against his modest tunic. Fenris didn't care for a wet sleeve, but he would endure for Anders. He would do anything for Anders.

“He has betrayed you...” Fenris whispered, trying to remain strong in what he spoke, though the very thought of insubordination to his Master's father was terrifying for an elf in his position. He could feel Anders tense in his arms, and suddenly the Prince was moving away.

“He has betrayed me...?” Anders whispered, accusing, and Fenris shrank down at the tone of voice. Anders had always asked him to be honest with him, to speak his mind, tell him what he believed in. But now, Anders looked almost offended by Fenris' open mind. “And what about you?! Weren't you supposed to protect me? Keep me from harm or ill-intent? Why didn't you do anything?”

Fenris stood baffled. He opened his mouth to retort, but nothing came aside from a dumb noise. Taking advantage of his shocked silence, Anders continued, “You walked me down there yourself! You bound me to that chair yourself! I was scared and you did—you did _nothing_!” More tears were falling, more thoughts were rushing through his mind, faster than a torrent. Above it all, though, was the casual chant that was overwhelming, tantalizing, and yet terrifying all at once.

_Kill Kill Kill Kill Kill Kill_

“No!” Anders cried out, covering his ears to try and silence it, try and get it out of his mind. Fenris, bouncing between fear that Anders would lash out at him and worry for his master's safety, tried to reach out and soothe him, but the mage smacked his arms away from him.

“Master--” Fenris tried to say, but Anders was already turning away from him, headed for his bedchambers. Distraught, Fenris hesitated for only a few paces before he charged after him, “Master, please--!”

“Do _not_ ,” Anders began, stopping his retreat, rage boiling within him, “even think of touching me!” He lashed out with a hand, only expecting to shove Fenris back, maybe strike his chest, but what burst from him instead was a wave of disoriented magic, warped and twisted with Anders' own confusion. Upon being hit by the spell, Fenris collapsed to his knees with a cry. His hands shot to his hair, pulling and tugging, and his eyes remained wide open terrified, though his gaze was unfocused.

Anders recalled his lessons in entropy, how the very act of such spells disgusted him. They were too similar to blood magic, he believed, too brutal in their purpose and too often used in modern Tevinter society. He had vowed to himself to never use such cruel magic unless it were his life on the line, and here he was casting Waking Nightmare on his very own slave. Fenris' screams were echoing throughout the hall, attracting the attention of not only the guards but of his father as well.

The guards rushed in first, taking one look at the stricken elf. They immediately surrounded Anders, assuming someone had attacked, but Anders didn't take it well. Suddenly being closed in upon by men with armor and blades made his already pounding heart race, and Anders tried to squirm out of their little protective circle.

“Subdue him!” Danarius commanded as he entered the hall, quickly approaching the howling elf and all but smacking him with a glyph of neutralization, followed quickly by a sleeping spell. The screaming stopped in moments as the elf slumped to the ground. The soldiers meanwhile began to grab the squirming Anders, two of them managing to grab his arms while the other two attempted to wrangle in his feet.

“Stop!” Anders shouted, one ankle being caught. He still kicked out with his free leg, jerking and twisting his body to try and get them to drop him, “Let me go! Let me go right now!”

_They do not listen. They are not worthy enough to touch me like this._

“Take him to his room and bind him if you must!” Danarius was shouting, calling for another two guards to come and take the collapsed elf away.

 _They are taking my slave_.

“No! No!” Anders cried, his other leg finally being grabbed. He was being held up by all four guards now, and they were taking him in the opposite direction from Fenris. Panic and rage and

hate burned within his skin. “Give him back! He's mine! Give him bac̘͖̙͔͓̠ͨk͙̝̜͐́ ̇͋̊̊̉̑t̹̳̮͍̰̟̄͑͂̅ͨo̒̔ͫ ̣̮m͕̲͖͙̣͈̲̾ͮ̋̿̈͐e̳̱̩̓͂,̪̮̯̗͈͗ͧ͒͊ ͕̤̹͊̃̇͂͆ͮḧ̠͙̱̗̹̪e͐͒ͦ̽̚aͦ͂ͭͣt̼̄̽ͦ̈ͮ̂͐h͚͍̥̟̙̰͇̄̄̒é̾ͭͣ̂n̩̉ͦ͐s̫̙̔̈́ͮ͐ͨ̎!”

One guard holding onto his bicep suddenly drew back with a cry. Fire had erupted across his arm, burning through his leather gloves until the material split and left his skin vulnerable. The flames quickly encased Anders' body, urging the other three guards to drop him lest they suffer a similar fate.

Landing on his back knocked the breath from Anders, the flames sputtering out, but none of the guards looked keen on grabbing him again.

“Maker, he's possessed!” The burned one claimed, taking a few panicked steps back.

“Nonsense!” Danarius spat, his eyes wide with interest, “He is merely throwing a tantrum! Get him!”

Anders groaned as he rolled onto his side and pushed himself onto his knees. His body ached. His stomach burned. His eyes felt hot and his throat dry. He wasn't sure what was going on, but the guards still standing around him made him uneasy.

_They have taken him._

The thought was foreign and yet familiar. Anders' head snapped up in realization. Turning towards his father, he saw the guards transporting Fenris had stopped towards the end of the hall to watch the scene.

“Drop him,” Anders commanded, the rage burning within him again. The guards holding Fenris glanced at one another, tempted to obey, but Danarius held up a hand before they could move.

“Take him away. Throw him in with the other slaves.” Danarius ordered instead, making the guards fidget nervously. Anders clenched his jaw, then slowly turned his head and his gaze towards his father. The guard standing between them immediately shuffled out of the way.

_These men do not know where their loyalties should lie._

_Must make them understand._

_Strike him down where he stands._

_Kill Kill Kill Kill Kill Kill Kill Kill Kill Kill Kill_

“Yes.” Anders breathed, a puppet to the will of the spirit within him. He pushed himself to his feet, his movements jerky as if each lift of a limb was forced. His balance was poor, his body swaying as he tried to step towards Danarius. The man merely looked amused at the sight.

“What's this, then? Planning to challenge me?” Danarius asked cockily, smoothing out the sleeves of his robes before he rolled them up to his elbows.

“Master Danarius--” One of the guards began to exclaim, taking a step towards him and unsheathing his sword. Danarius merely gestured him to stop with a hand.

“Stand down. I'll take care of this.” He ordered, making the guard falter. He stepped away once more, but he kept his sword drawn, just in case he needed to intervene. Danarius, meanwhile, lifted his hands in preparation to cast, a wide smirk on his lips. It had been a long while since he challenged Anders to a duel—their last one had been back when Anders was more flighty when he placed hexes around his bedroom—but now Danarius had the opportunity to not only challenge his son but perhaps the Archdemon Toth.

_What a fool._

_He will harm me no longer._

Anders shot a messy fireball at Danarius, but the man all but swatted it away with a spell shield and a step to the side.

“You are unstable. Your souls are clashing. Just give in, Anders. Let him consume you.” Danarius spoke, casting another glyph of neutralization, though this time it was at Anders. The mage grunted, his already stiff body stumbling under the glyph's power. Following it up with a burst of mana cleanse, Anders felt the influence of Toth burn within him and he dropped to a knee.

“I have created you, child. I may have gifted you with this power, but do not think for a second that you are better than me. You are weak, Anders. You are pitiful.” Danarius spat out, dropping his spell shield, “I could have picked better.”

Turning away from his fallen son, Danarius called out to the guards around them, “Take him to his bedchambers and tie him to the bedposts. Subdue him with magebane. He will not be freed unless I wish it.”

Anders scowled as the guards began to step towards him again. A hand on his arm and one grabbing his hair made him squirm. His mana had been depleted from the cleanse, but Anders still had enough within him. He still had enough for one spell.

_Spill their blood._

Anders' head jerked back and he let out a cry, summing forth as much lightning as he could manage. The men holding him were immediately shocked, while the other two still advancing were hit when the lightning forked. Danarius turned, his eyes wide. The guards dropped like flies, the one who had remained arm dropping his sword, the blade skidding along the hallway.

Anders was panting, his body weak, his mind numb, but he could feel laughter bubbling in his chest, deep in his lungs.

_Do not resist._

_We cannot resist._

_Kill us._

Anders' eyes jumped to the sword lying in the middle of the hall. Danarius followed his gaze, and his body went rigid.

_Kill us._

_End the pain._

_Free us._

Anders scrambled towards the blade, crawling towards it on his hands and knees. Danarius rushed forward as well, already summoning up a spell in the palm of his hand.

“Stop!” Danarius spat out, but Anders grabbed the blade and lifted it as high as he could, the blade pressing against the center of his chest.

_End the suffering._

_Kill us, Kill us,_

Anders began to bring the blade down, crying out as the tip of it dug into his robes and then into his skin. Danarius sent out his spell, knowing it would reach Anders before he did.

_Idiotic child_

Anders was physically knocked back when the sleep spell hit him, the blade slipping out of his hand. Danarius came to a stop a few paces away from Anders' splayed out form, cautious as he shuffled closer. He watched the rise and fall of Anders' chest, saw the way his eyelids flickered as he slept. Sighing in relief, Danarius then regarded the guards surrounding them.

Three were dead. One was merely unconscious. Danarius clicked his tongue, disappointed. It was so hard to find good guards these days.

Deciding things wouldn't be done quickly unless he did them himself, Danarius squatted down and awkwardly lifted Anders, grunting from the strain. He was a Magister, not a bodybuilder, and Maker was his son heavy. Perhaps Danarius should think about cutting back on his meals, for he could definitely feel the fat on him.

He made the short journey to Anders' room, much smaller than the one he had in their mansion in Minrathous, but still luxurious all the same. He dropped the Altus onto the mattress, then proceeded to tug at his limbs until he lay spread eagle on his back. Casting a strong paralysis spell upon the teen, Danarius then left to fetch some rope, which he planned to enchant and tie Anders down with. The boy wouldn't be leaving anytime soon. His magic will not be returning soon, either. The Magister would make sure of it.

Out of the two of them, Fenris woke first. Danarius had been cast glyph after glyph over the space around Anders' bed, ensuring he would not be able to leave without a challenge, when a soldier came calling.

“Master Danarius. Fenris has awoken.” The soldier informed him, staying in the doorway to the room.

“How is he faring?” Danarius asked distractedly, finishing up the last glyph.

“He is not doing well. He is awake and responsive, but he seems on edge, still. He may need healing.” The guard answered, not daring to step any further in. He was eyeing the floor warily, then the sleeping form of Anders before he asked, “And the Prince? Still alive?”

“Fortunately,” Danarius replied slowly, lowering his hands when the glyph was in place. He turned, facing the guard, only to pause and smirk at him, “Don't worry, good man, these marks will only affect him.” He reassured him, stepping through one of the many glyphs on his way over, just to show him how it did not react. The soldier slowly relaxed, but he still didn't step into the room. “Lead me to the elf. Let me see what damage has been done.”

It wasn't until the next morning that Anders woke up. He pulled first on the bind to try and rub his eyes, but when his arms went nowhere, he began to ruthlessly tug and pull on them to try and free himself. In his panic, Anders shouted for help, and immediately two guards came stepping in.

“Calm down, Master,” One bid, lifting a gentle hand.

“The binds are for your protection.” The other said, and Anders went still in realization.

“You bastards bound me?!” Anders shouted, tugging harder on his restraints, “This is deplorable! Let me go! Now!”

The guards glanced at one another, nervous, but the first one to speak slowly muttered, “We... can't do that, Master. Master Danarius has told us to keep watch, to make sure you stayed bound.”

“My father did this?” Anders huffed, immediately throwing his head back onto his bed, “Of course he did. Ridiculous!” He tugged once more on his binds, then asked, “And where is Fenris? Bring me my slave.”

Glancing at each other again, this time the second guard spoke, “Master Danarius doesn't think it wise to let the elf near you so soon... After what happened--”

Anders cursed under his breath. That was right, he struck the poor creature with a nightmare, didn't he? He didn't mean to, though! Surely the elf knew that... He just couldn't control his power after the ritual Danarius put him through...

“I don't care what Danarius thinks. If he has me bound, at least give me my elf.” Anders implored, looking at the guards with a frown, “He is supposed to be my slave. My father cannot take him away from me.”

The guards hesitated at the plea, then turned to one another, trying to speak in low tones. Anders held his breath to try and listen, though he only caught bits and pieces.

“... really think it's a good idea?”

“You know what Danarius said.... but the elf didn't seem....”

“And if he finds out,” the guard gestured vaguely at Anders, “He'll get all....”

“Better now than never, though, don't you think?” The other guard replied, a bit louder than before. He turned to face Anders, arms crossing over his chest, “Alright. We'll go fetch your slave. But before we do, just know, we had _nothing_ to do with it!”

That wasn't comforting. Anders grimaced at the thought that something else happened to his slave, but he didn't have the chance to ask. Moments later, the two men were exiting his room, one standing guard by the door and the other heading towards the slave quarters. It took too long for the guard to retrieve him, in Anders' opinion. He swore the shadows in his room grew longer for how long it had been. But when he heard feet shuffling down the hall, following by a gruff, “Go on in, then. Mind the floor.” Anders turned his attention towards the doorway.

Standing there was an elf dressed from head to toe in black armor. His breastplate was adorned with the Arvanitis heraldry, and his helmet's visor was lifted enough to reveal bright green eyes. Anders smiled a little, checking out the armor for a moment. They had added more since the last time he saw it.

“You called for me, Master?” Fenris asked, his voice muffled by the helmet. He stepped into the room slowly, edging his toes along the rim of each hex and glyph, then advancing forward when they didn't set off.

“How are you?” Anders asked immediately, only to interrupt himself and say, “Come here. Come sit with me.”

Fenris took his time getting to Anders' side, but when he arrive, he settled down on the bed rigidly. The new placket and fauld made him sit ramrod straight, while the cuisse and tasset seemed uninhibited. Anders wished he could touch it. He also wished he could peel the damned armor from him and feel his skin. He had half a mind to ask Fenris to lay with him, but there were still guards at his door.

“How are you?” Anders asked again, looking into Fenris' eyes, though the elf averted them quickly.

“I am well.” Fenris said too quickly, and Anders sighed a little at being lied to, “Master Danarius has resumed my training here, but since I do not have my usual tutors, I am instead doing drills with the guardsmen. Hence the... armor.”

“I see there's more of it. Still no codpiece, though. How disconcerting.” Anders joked lightly, and Fenris glanced at him, a smile in his eyes.

“It is still in progress.” He said gently. Anders smiled more at that, then he looked up at his hands.

“I didn't mean to hit you with that spell the other day.” He spoke up, too nervous to look at his elf, “I didn't mean to cast it at all, actually. I'm sorry for putting you through that.”

Fenris didn't respond at first. Instead, he merely looked away from Anders, staring down at his bare feet on the stone floor. Anders thought for a moment that the elf might actually be angry at him. He believed he deserved it, though. He would take what the elf dished out with a stiff upper lip.

“Fenris?” Anders whispered when the elf still did not respond. His head turned back towards Anders for a moment, then he looked away again and cleared his throat.

“It was a strong spell, My Prince. Master Danarius had to call for healers nearby. They believe I need a few more sessions before I am... well again.” Fenris spoke quietly, the tips of his gauntlets digging into his cuisse.

“Fenris...” Anders whispered, his heart tearing itself apart. How had he done such a thing to his elf? Guilt ate away at him, and he immediately said, “Come here. Let me heal you.”

“No, I—You can't anyways,” Fenris refused, getting up from the bed in a quick motion, “Master Danarius has you bound.”

“That doesn't mean I can't use my magic.” Anders said with a smile, “Come on, let me heal what I've hurt.”

Fenris looked at Anders with wide eyes, obviously uncomfortable with the idea. “I think it best if I leave...”

“What? But you just got here...” Anders pointed out, pulling lightly on his binds, “Please. Let me just heal you.”

Fenris shifted on his feet anxiously, his eyes darting from Anders to the door then back to Anders. With a brief sigh, Fenris stepped closer to the mage and tugged off his gauntlet. His hand now bear, Fenris interlocked their fingers, holding Anders' closest hand tightly. Anders grinned up at his slave, then closed his eyes and focused on his power.

He felt the warmth within him first, the magic pooling in his veins, but when he tried to focus it outwards, the ropes on his wrists glowed. The magic was repulsed, shot back into Anders' heart like a punishment, and the mage jolted in shock before he looked up at his elf. Fenris had let go of him, his eyes apologetic, and he mumbled, “You cannot cast. Master Danarius has made sure of it.”

Anders fidgeted where he lay, panic rising in him again, and he said, “So then release me.”

“I cannot. Master Danarius wished you to remain like this for some time.” Fenris refused, his eyes darting away, “I'm sorry, Master.”

Anders squirmed a little harder, his teeth grinding, and he blurted out, “He can't leave me like this! You can't either! Please, please, Fenris, see reason! M-my father is going mad! First the darkspawn blood and now this? Can't you see what he's doing?!”

Fenris stiffened in all of his armor, his expression hidden. His eyes seemed to grow wet, however, and he muttered, “Master Danarius will punish me if I free you... I... I cannot bear it, Master. Please forgive me.”

“Fenris!” Anders gasped when the elf turned and hurried for the door. Struggling harder, Anders shouted, “Fenris! Don't go!” But the elf was gone and Anders was alone again. The mage was panting now, his panic becoming a physical sensation within his body. He resumed his thrashing, though it only made the ropes cut his wrists and let them bleed. Anders resorted to shouting, then, though this time his guards did not come running. He thought for a moment that they had left him too, wondered if some rogue in the night would take this opportunity to slip in and kill him. The idea was more appealing than it had ever been, but Anders wasn't sure if that was himself thinking it or Toth.

Blood trickled down his arms, wetting his robes and making a mess of his sheets. He did not bleed much, luckily avoiding the artery in his arm, but it was enough to make Anders smell it, to make ideas pop into his mind. His father never taught him blood magic, but there was never much to teach anyways. You get blood, you cast a spell, and it enhances it, or so was the theory.

An urge to try it swelled in his chest, but Anders fought it vehemently. He was not a maleficar, and he never will be. He will not fall to weakness just because Daddy suddenly became interested in light bondage. Anders snorted at the joke. Jokes were safe. They kept him calm.

Trying not to focus any longer on the ropes or the blood or the way his magic surged within him but would not release, Anders closed his eyes and attempted to meditate. His silence was probably a relief to the guards by his door. He could hear them shuffling around now that he was no longer making a ruckus. One of them cleared his throat. The other sniffed. The third punched something.

Anders' eyes snapped open. There hadn't been three guards before, had there? Anders waited for the sound of metal crashing onto the floor, but instead, he heard a gentle shushing noise, followed by the soft whisper of their armor moving.

“You have fifteen minutes before Danarius suspects something,” One guard whispered, then promptly left if his retreating footsteps were anything to go by. Anders felt his heart race and he looked towards the doorway once more.

The room was dark. Anders didn't remember it getting so late. He must have been in hysterics for a while before he managed to calm. A shadow moved in the darkness, the shuffle of more metal. A guard, maybe? But this man blended in too closely with the shadows.

The man walked forward with determination, only faltering halfway to hold up a hand, “Master, please be calm,” That familiar, gruff voice whispered, and Anders felt himself exhale in relief.

“Maker, Fenris, don't scare me like that!” Anders begged, letting his head drop back against his pillows again. The elf continued to hesitate, looking down at himself.

“I made no attempt at concealing myself...” Fenris pointed out, looking back up at Anders again. “How did I scare you?”

Anders snorted and shifted a little on his bed, “What, you think everyone can see in the dark like you can? I'm human. I need a light to see.”

Fenris bobbed his head, then continued to approach now that Anders was no longer hyperventilating, “I bribed the guard to assist me. I knocked the other out. I needed... I needed you to see me.” Fenris muttered, lifting his hands to his helmet and yanking it off in one fluid motion. It was still dark and Anders was still human, but the patch of shocking white hair at Fenris' roots was bright enough even in the dark. Anders gasped at the reveal and attempted to sit up, but the binds were relentless.

“Maker, Fenris, what—“ Anders cut himself off with a gulp, horror in his eyes, “Did... Did I cause that?”

“The healers believe so. They do not know how to fix it.” Fenris admitted, looking ashamed, “The spell truly was strong... One mentioned that they had seen someone's hair turn white from fear. Master Danarius thinks this will... change how you see me...” He fiddled with his helmet, obviously wanting to put it back on, but the secret was out now, and all Anders could do was stare and gape.

Silence stretched out between them, Fenris getting progressively more nervous until finally he tucked the helmet against his hip and muttered, “I suppose Master Danarius was... right.”

“Maker, Fenris,” Anders breathed, shaking his head immediately, “I-I... Forgive me, I'm just... I caused this?” He asked again, his eyes tearing up. He had hurt his slave, hurt him so badly it showed. Now when people looked at Fenris, they would see his hair and they would know Anders had caused it. They would know Anders was as cruel as the rest of them. It made him feel sick.

Fenris' brow furrowed, but he nodded silently, obviously not understanding what Anders was so upset at, “Master Danarius mentioned using dyes. He says if they can stain cloth then they can stain hair...”

“I don't—!” Anders shouted, but he quickly dropped his voice when the elf jumped and urgently hushed him, “I don't care about your Blighted hair! I can't believe I did this to you... Oh, Maker, you must hate me!” He wailed, and Fenris actually snarled at the very thought.

Setting his helmet down on Anders' other side, Fenris sat on the bed close to his master and said to him, “Don't utter such nonsense. I could never hate you.”

“Well, you should! I'm a bastard for doing this to you! I hate myself just thinking about this!” Anders continued to wail, wishing he could just be unbound so he could hold his slave to his chest and apologize properly.

“Please, Master, lower your voice,” Fenris whispered with a small smile, setting a hand on Anders' stomach, “You'll wake all of Qarinus like this.”

“Let them hear my groveling!” Anders huffed, though he lowered his voice as commanded, “I have hurt my closest friend. I am not worth your forgiveness.”

Fenris tutted and rolled his eyes, then muttered, “You are so dramatic,” before he leaned in to kiss him. Anders hummed at the press of lips, his eyes sliding shut, and he tried to tilt his head to allow Fenris a better angle. The elf merely grunted and moved his hand to cradle the back of Anders' skull, only to jolt away and stare at his now wet palm.

“Master, you are bleeding!” Fenris gasped, realizing too late how the bedroom smelled of blood and other things. Anders had been bound to the bed all day, however. Fenris was surprised that Danarius hadn't ordered one of the other slaves to at least clean him.

“It's only my wrists. I was throwing a tantrum,” Anders sighed, glancing up at his bound wrists with a scowl. Fleetingly, he glanced Fenris' way, then asked, “It... wouldn't be too much to ask for just one to be released? The wounds might fester. If I could just heal—“

Fenris bit his lip, looking apologetic. Anders sighed and dropped his head back against the pillow, pouting. The elf gifted him another soft kiss, an apologetic one this time, and he whispered, “I'm sorry, Master. I promise I'll speak to Master Danarius about this.”

“Backstabber.” Anders muttered a little cruelly, but when he saw Fenris' dejected expression, Anders sighed and swallowed his pride, “Fine. I can wait. But return to me in the morning at least. I can't bear the stand of blood and piss. Oh,” Anders' face flushed, suddenly embarrassed, “Maker but that's come from me, hasn't it? Why are you even sitting here? It must be disgusting for you.”

“Nothing about you is disgusting to me.” Fenris mumbled, giving him another kiss, deeper this time, “I could prove it to you.” His hand rubbed at Anders' chest, making the mage's body feel warm, though he immediately refused.

“No. Absolutely not. Perhaps when I'm bathed and less abhorrent, but we are not doing anything when I'm covered in my own damned mess.” Anders declared sternly, and Fenris chuckled in amusement.

“As you wish.” One last kiss before Fenris stood, “The guard will be returning soon. I must be gone by the time he arrives.”

“Come back to me, okay?” Anders told him, and Fenris only smirked and nodded. Replacing his helmet upon his head, Fenris left the room without another word. He slipped away only minutes before the guard returned, his silver armor glinting in the sliver of moonlight filtering through the window as he peered inside.

Satisfied with what he saw, the guard went to his partner and woke him up from the knock to his head.

“Come on, you bastard, up and at 'em.” He urged. Anders sighed and tried to make himself as comfortable as possible, hoping he could get a little bit of sleep before the next morning.

When he awoke the next day, it was to Danarius mumbling a spell over him as Fenris untied him, one limb at a time. Anders felt his heart race thinking for a moment that he'll be released. When his arm was freed, Anders tried to lift it, but even without the rope, his body was stiff. His eyes widened and he tried to turn his head, tried to look at his father, but even his neck was frozen still by Danarius' spell.

A gurgle came from his throat, catching Fenris' attention. Danarius kept chanting his spell, but he snapped his fingers at the elf, and Fenris merely ducked his head and continued to untie him.

Once his limbs were all released, Fenris made quick work of pulling off Anders' clothes. Stripping him all the way down to his smalls, Fenris then pulled a basin and a sponge closer to himself. Danarius reached the end of his spell, no longer having to whisper its words to keep Anders subdued.

“You made a fine mess of yourself.” Danarius tutted, his footsteps receding as he walked away from Anders' bed. “Make sure you change the sheets as well. And wrap his wrists in cloth. It looks like he's done more damage that I thought likely.”

“Yes, Master,” Fenris whispered, glancing up at Danarius, then stealing a smiling glance at Anders when the man wasn't looking. He began to sponge bathe Anders, starting first with his bloodied wrists so he could wrap them quickly then move onto his face and torso. He skipped over his hips and went to his legs, only working on the worst of it all last, as to not contaminate the water too badly.

The procedure was quick and Fenris was drying him off and redressing him in a fresh tunic in no time, but he didn't bother replacing his trousers or smalls. In fact, he left his bottom half nude, and he slid a bedpan beneath him. Anders gurgled again, irritated to know he'll be staying in his bed for a long while.

Once he was clean and half-dressed, Fenris began to retie his limbs, starting with his ankles that he wrapped loosely as well, to prevent any more injuries from appearing. He moved up to his wrists next, making sure the ropes were tight, but not pressing into his wounds. Finally, he switched out the sheets underneath him, then covered Anders with a fresh sheet, ensuring his modesty.

When he was done, Fenris glanced once more at Danarius, then stole a soft kiss from Anders' frozen lips. It was sweet and nice in its innocence, but Anders was only irritated that he could not return the action. The elf stood soon after, announcing, “I am done, Master.”

“Ah, good.” Danarius sighed, coming back to the bed to look over Fenris' work, “Well, he certainly smells better. I guess that's an improvement.” He snapped his fingers, and the paralysis spell on Anders dropped.

His body sagged at first, Anders gasping as if he hadn't been able to breathe. Laying on the bedpan was uncomfortable on its own, but honestly, this whole situation was beginning to get on his nerves. “Worst birthday,” Anders spat out, first and foremost. Danarius scoffed at him, meeting his gaze when Anders turned his head to glare at him.

“Go on, be bitter all you like. You don't understand the value of what I've given you.” Danarius spat out, grimacing down at his son.

“Oh? A week in Qarinus doing nothing but laying in bed, pissing in a pan and collecting bedsores? Goody!” Anders sniped, adding fake enthusiasm to his voice in every word, “I'm sure I'll realize its value when I'm older and doing the same to _my_ children.”

Danarius snorted at him, a bitter, impassive noise, but he didn't comment on Anders' rage. Instead, he said, “We will be taking this slowly. I planned for us to return to Minrathous in a fortnight, maybe a few days before then, but I am willing to keep you here for as long as it takes.”

“And what, pray tell, is 'it' exactly?” Anders asked in exasperation.

“Why, it is how long it will take for your soul to rot away and for Toth's to take its place,” Danarius informed, a sly smirk on his face that only made Anders angrier.

“It'll never happen.” Anders growled, baring his teeth, “I won't let it so long as I live.”

“And that's the unfortunate thing, isn't it?” Danarius sighed, reaching out to roughly pat at Anders' cheek, only to freeze when a growl from the other side of Anders reminded him of Fenris' presence. Surprised, Danarius looked at the elf, but Fenris quickly ducked his head, his ears bright red in embarrassment.

Frowning, Danarius pulled his hand away, then continued to speak, “We have to keep you alive until this process is completed. Which means your slave here will be tending to you night and day. He will be sleeping at your bedside from now on, as well. He will make sure you are bathed, fed, watered, and... exercised.” His eyes narrowed, and Anders felt his own eyes widen. Surely Danarius didn't know of their little escapades? Had Fenris told him? Anders was absolutely certain his father was never around when they got into it!

“I will be checking in every day to see your progress. Do not disappoint me like you so often do, Anders.” Danarius sighed, crossing his arms, “Fenris, move in as soon as you are done cleaning up after yourself. I will be releasing the wards. I am certain you'll be able to keep him placated in the meantime.”

“Yes, Master.” Fenris obeyed with a deep bow, then promptly got up and grabbed the basin of water and the dirtied sheets, carrying them out of the room. Danarius sighed and began to follow him out, nothing left to say to his son.

“Was I ever your son to you?” Anders called out after him, watching the receding form of his father. Danarius paused in the doorway, not turning to face him as he thought. Silence stretched between them, Danarius unmoving and Anders' heart racing.

Then, Danarius turned his head. He turned only enough for Anders to see the outline of his cheek and brow, and he said in a soft voice, “I did love you. Like one loves a prized jewel, perhaps. A porcelain doll to be kept in a glass case. But you were never anything more than that. And you never will be.”

He left soon after that. Anders sat in the silence alone, his heart broken. He began to cry without fully realizing it. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and without being able to move his arms, he could not wipe them away.

When Fenris returned, a thin, rolled up mattress tucked under his arm, Anders turned his head away. Fenris didn't react at first, he merely laid the mattress down by the foot of Anders' bed, where Anders wouldn't be able to see him. After setting it out and putting his thin sheet over it, Fenris stood up straight and glanced towards the door.

“I have commanded the cook to bring you your breakfast. She informed me it will take twenty minutes for the meal to be prepared.” Fenris informed Anders, looking to his master as he spoke. Anders tried not to look at his elf, but he couldn't really hide his face either.

The elf was silent for a long moment. Anders thought maybe he would try ignoring him, or maybe he didn't notice. But then the bed was dipping and Anders looked over at him, seeing his concerned gaze.

“Master... Are you... okay?” Fenris asked, putting a hand on Anders' thigh, right over the blanket. Anders frowned at the question, not sure how exactly Fenris thought he would answer. His father didn't love him. Never loved him, in fact. And even though the man was a bastard and a heartless son-of-a-bitch, he was the only person in Anders' like that he could call family.

Desperate for some sort of affection, some sort of comfort, Anders asked in a rough voice, “Do you love me?”

The look he received could have been amusing in any other situation. Fenris turned to him, his eyes saucer-wide and his face a soft pink. Fenris squeezed Anders thigh for a moment, anxiety in his eyes, and then he replied earnestly, “Master... That isn't even a question. You are everything to me.”

Anders blinked, trying to will away his tears, but they kept coming. He was glad he wasn't sobbing at the very least, but this was still embarrassing, to be crying in front of his slave. Fenris frowned in worry. He didn't know what he could do to make it better, wasn't sure what would be the best move in this situation, so he merely did what came naturally.

Slowly, carefully, Fenris made himself comfortable against Anders' side. He curled up against Anders' body, resting his head on his shoulder and wrapping an arm around his torso. He pressed a soft kiss against his neck before he laid his head down again, closing his eyes and pressing his cheek down.

“I... love you,” Fenris whispered, sounding unsure at first, so he repeated it, “I love you deeply. Command me and I shall follow.”

Anders squeezed his eyes shut, pain echoing through him. That wasn't love. It was loyalty. It was Anders owning Fenris, and Fenris submitting to it. It wasn't what either of them wanted anymore. It wasn't Leto anymore.

A week passed slowly. Anders spent most of that time staring out the window, watching the sun rise then the sky darken as it fell. He watched as the little harbor town came to life not so far away, how the lantern flames flickered in the night and danced along the water's surface. Fenris came and fed him three times a day. He bathed him every night. Changed his chamber pot twice daily. Spoke to him and laid with him and he even pleasured him when Anders was feeling restless.

The sex was great, as usual. It was a good distraction, Fenris' body looming over Anders'. But it also allowed the mage to get a closer look at his elf, see the dark circles under his eyes, the way that white patch of hair had grown out even more. His green eyes were dull, his hands shook, and Anders knew he was exhausted. He knew the elf didn't sleep nearly as much as Anders did, mostly since Anders' only option was to sleep or lay awake and do nothing, but he didn't realize the elf may have been actively avoiding it.

One night after Fenris rode his master, they laid together in the aftermath and Anders continued to watch him, fond of the way Fenris still found a way to look satisfied long after they had both finished. Fenris cuddled into his side like he had taken to ever since Anders was tied up, occasionally leaving soft kisses along his skin. Anders smiled a little, then whispered, “Hey.”

“Hmm?” Fenris hummed, not even looking up at his master, he was so tired.

“You look tired,” Anders mentions, and the elf only smirked at that, tucking his chin tighter against his shoulder.

“I am not interested in a round two,” Fenris replied coyly, though his hand began to rub circles into Anders' chest. The mage chuckled lightly, but he shook his head.

“That's not what I meant. Have you been sleeping?” Anders asked instead, wishing he could just loosen one hand so he could hug Fenris back. How he missed cuddling his elf.

Fenris hummed at the question, his eyes opening just slightly so he could watch as his fingertips played with the hair on Anders' chest, the mage's tunic still pushed up around his armpits from their previous activities. “It will come to me some nights. Others it will stay elusive.” He mumbled, his voice a tangible buzz from where his cheek was pressed against Anders' shoulder.

“And the healers?” Anders asked next, because he hadn't for some time, and he knew that should have been his first concern. The white in his hair still grew, despite how little the actual length did. Perhaps he cut it daily.

“They believe it is a lost cause.” Fenris sighed, looking up at Anders now, “They say I will either be driven mad with exhaustion or I will learn to live with the fear.”

Anders' brows rose at that. Fear? Was Fenris afraid of Anders? But he came to him so willingly, laid with him with ease... Anders found it hard to find the elf being wary of his touch when he sought it so eagerly.

“Are you afraid of me?” He asked directly, feeling it would be much easier to do so that way than guessing. Fenris blinked at him, his hand stilling on Anders' chest. He thought about the question, figured out how to best word it in his mind, then he made a face, a sort of silent admission of uncertainty, followed by a single-shouldered shrug.

“I am not, but only because I know you are bound and unable to cast. The thought of such magic touching me again... makes me anxious. But I am uncertain if I am truly afraid of you, Master.” Fenris answered slowly, and Anders began to relax. That much, he could understand. Such a strong spell was terrible to be a victim to—or at least, Anders was told. He himself had never fallen under a waking nightmare, though he wondered if that trip to the fade and getting an Archdemon soul put inside of him was similar.

“Shall we test it?” Anders suggested after a brief lull, and Fenris looked at Anders in confusion, “I wish to heal you myself,” Anders explained carefully, “You needn't release me fully. Just one hand. And I will do nothing but heal.”

Immediately, Fenris looked uncertain. Anders was going to be patient with him. Instead of pleading with him or making his case to convince his slave, he would let Fenris come to his own decision. And it seemed to be the tactic that worked.

“You promise you will... only heal?” Fenris whispered, looking at Anders in the eyes as if he could detect any moment of deception should it happen. Anders kept their gazes locked. He had nothing to hide from his slave.

“Only healing. Anything else will only be performed if you ask me to.” He promised, giving the elf a reassuring smile. Fenris didn't return it. He merely looked away from Anders, his eyes trailing up his arm and to the rope binding him.

Danarius had removed the hexes from the floor, but the enchantments on the ropes were permanent, a separate entity from Danarius' magic. They glowed and buzzed with the power it took to restrain Anders. Untying them wouldn't break the enchantment, exactly, but it would break the current hold it has on his magic, which would require time for it to renew. During that time, Anders may be able to slip out of it, one way or another.

It was a risk. A very dangerous one, at that. Not only was Fenris' hide on the line should Danarius ever find out about this, but Anders could break out and hurt more people if he loses control like he had at the beginning. Though it seemed inhumane, keeping Anders bound like this was for the greater good, Fenris believed.

But the elf also believed that his master was a good man, an honest one, and he only wanted to fix what he had broken. Against his better judgment, Fenris' fingers found themselves working at the knot securing the Anders' wrist to his bedpost. He tugged it apart deftly, and Anders drew his arm close to his chest the moment it was free, letting out an aching groan.

“Maker, but that feels so much better,” He breathed, dropping his head back against his pillow and just letting his hand rest on his chest, able to feel the blood rushing through his previously numbed limb. He even felt that tickle of magic sizzling in his muscles, burning at his fingertips. So much had been pent up, it was all practically surging at this one limb that could now cast without restraint.

_Could escape._

His thoughts. Toth's thoughts. Anders' eyes opened as they filled his mind again, stronger now that he had an actual means to escape.

_Take the Flame._

_Through the window._

_Freedom._

“Fenris,” Anders whispered, his voice hoarse now that he was battling the desire to just yank the other three ropes free and run, “I may have made a slight miscalculation...”

“What is it?” Fenris asked, his brows furrowed and his face stone-serious. His arms were trembling, but he tried to hide it by squeezing his hands into fists and setting them upon his knees.

“I haven't used my magic in a whole week. If I attempt a healing spell, my magic will burst out.” Anders explained, then instantly regretted it when Fenris' eyes widened and he began to push himself off the bed, “It's not that it'll hurt you! It's just—remember that day out in town? I healed you in the alleyway and you collapsed? That's what will happen, but I can't guarantee how quickly you'll wake up.”

Fenris scowled this time, his brows furrowing deeply as he considered what this meant. Slowly, he came to the conclusion Anders was trying to hint at, “So you must disperse some magic before you can heal me.”

“Yes.” Anders replied with a smile, “It doesn't have to be chaotic. I just... I don't want to make what I did worse.”

Fenris pressed his lips into a line, his eyes lowering to his own lap as he thought. Anders waited with baited breath, wondering what was going through Fenris' mind right now. Would he tie Anders back up and decide this was a bad idea? Would he insist on Anders only healing Fenris, despite the possible consequences?

“The lights,” Fenris finally muttered under his breath, catching Anders' attention. He kept his head down, not looking up at his master, “The colorful lights you can create. Will that suffice?”

“Yes. Undoubtedly.” Anders breathed, flexing his fingers with a smile, “There are hints of elemental magic in it, though, but none of it will hurt you. I promise.”

Fenris merely nodded, staying quiet as Anders lifted a hand and let his magic manifest. Simultaneously, the two of them groaned, Anders in relief and Fenris in response to the pull on his lyrium lines. From his palm floated small orbs of light, glowing in various colors as different elements charged them.

The lights began to zip around the room, swirling around one another, flashing colors of reds, greens, blues, and yellows as they danced and spun. Anders let a few larger ones go, physically feeling the relief as his mana pool deflated.

“That feels so much better,” Anders moaned, playing with the lights now, consciously manipulating them to create shapes, colors, and to even float around Fenris' body, warming his skin and making his lyrium glow. The elf smiled at the sensations, then laughed softly when a few orbs of creation-charged orbs brushed his skin.

In one last burst of magic, Anders snapped his fingers, sending every one of his orbs shooting towards the ceiling. Upon reaching a safe height, they exploded like tiny fireworks, sizzling out in tiny plumes of smoke until the room was dim once more. Fenris was still grinning as the last of the magic dissipated, then he looked back at his master and asked, “Are you ready?”

“Only if you are,” Anders said happily, lifting his hand for Fenris to take. The elf slowly brought his own hand up to Anders', though he hesitated at the last moment. Hovering only an inch apart, Anders frowned and looked to his slave, “I won't hurt you, Fenris.”

“I know.” He replied, though he still did not take his hand, “I guess I just... I feel...” His smile twisted into a frown, his eyes growing distant, “I am ashamed for being so fearful of you. You didn't mean to hurt me.”

Anders bit his lip, emotion coursing through him at the apology. In a thick voice, Anders replied, “Thank you, Fenris.”

They met gazes for a moment, then Fenris cupped Anders' hand in his own, bringing it up to his cheek and nuzzling into his palm. He closed his eyes, enjoying his master's touch. Anders smiled at the action, his heart fluttering in his chest, and with a light breath, he began to heal.

Fenris' grip on Anders' hand tightened for a moment, but then he moaned in relief, his closed eyes lining with tears Anders brushed away the ones he could reach, his brows furrowing in concentration.

“Does it hurt?” Anders asked, though he kept the gentle stream of healing rolling between them.

“No. Maker, no,” Fenris warbled, turning his face in Anders' hand so he could kiss his palm, “It... feels so good... Your magic....” He sucked in a breath, and he let Anders' hand slide from his cheek to his neck, shivering at the way his magic seemed to follow his veins, pulsing throughout his body and making his lyrium glitter. “I missed it...”

Anders bit his lip hard, unable to suppress the wide grin that spread across his face. Still pumping healing magic into him, Anders' moved his hand to the back of Fenris' neck and pulled him close. Fenris came to him willingly, propping himself up with one hand to keep from colliding into him. Their lips met, Fenris' mouth opening immediately to allow it to deepen.

Fenris groaned in delight, one hand roaming up and down Anders' chest while the other cradled his cheek. Anders slowly focused his attention on his magic, trying to see if anything malignant still rested within his slave. Grunting softly when he couldn't find anything, Anders let his brow furrow and he delved deeper, prodding through parts of his slave that would ideally never see the light of day. Fenris, sensing Anders' distraction from his lack of kissing, slowly pulled away from his master, busying himself instead by nuzzling into his neck.

“Where is it,” Anders whispered aloud, keeping his eyes shut to keep focused.

_I'm a Spirit Healer._

_Allow them to guide._

The muscles in Anders' face twitched at the thought, and he reminded himself firmly that he was not, in fact, a Spirit Healer, and letting _anything_ in from the Fade was a bad, bad idea. Focusing harder on the magic that had to be left in his slave, Anders did all he could to ignore that voice within him.

_Let compassion fill me._

_Let forgiveness overwhelm my desires._

_Let sorrow drive me._

“Enough!” Anders gasped, cutting off the magic so suddenly that Fenris flinched. They looked at one another, Fenris' eyes wide and Anders' apologetic. Breathing hard, the mage muttered, “I... I can't find it... I'm sorry.”

Fenris' eyelids fluttered, filling for a moment with disappointment, but he quickly recovered with a forgiving smile. “It's alright, My Prince. The healers said the same.”

Anders sighed, disappointed in himself. He wasn't like the other healers. He should be able to find what still ailed his elf. Fenris gave him a few kisses along his jaw, forgiving in their nature, and Anders merely let him, closing his eyes to enjoy the sensations.

Quick footsteps coming down the hall alerted them to their impending visitor. Fenris reacted faster than Anders did, and had already retired his wrist by the time the mage uttered, “Fenris, the rope.”

Secured to his bed once again, Fenris got up from the bed, fixed Anders' tunic, then turned to greet Danarius just as he stepped into the room. Dropping to his knees, Fenris bowed deeply, but it was all for naught, for Danarius had his eyes glued to a parchment in his hand.

“Fenris, untie him,” Danarius commanded, still reading over the letter. The elf looked up in shock, his eyes wide.

“What?” Anders blurted, similarly surprised. Fenris looked up at the younger mage, sharing his confusion, but he got to work soon after. Freeing one limb after another, Danarius stepped further into the room and began to explain.

“It looks like our Archon has gotten... ahead of himself.” Danarius sighed, looking every last bit of annoyed as he could be before he turned downright deadly. Anders slowly sat upright, his muscles trembling from their disuse all week. His back ached, his stomach churned, and with a groan, Anders blasted himself with healing magic, hoping to quell some of his discomforts. Unfortunately for him, even creation magic couldn't replace muscle mass.

“He is eager to witness your power in action.” Danarius continued, lowering the parchment to finally look at his son, grimacing at his sorry state. Anders tugged on the blankets, making sure they still covered his indecency. Fenris resumed his position on his knees beside Anders' bed, head bowed and hands on his lap.

“So we are returning to Minrathous?” Anders asked, his brows furrowed. That would be good. It was a lot easier for Anders to leave the mansion in Minrathous than it was here, considering he was far more familiar with his home city's market than he was with the harbor town here.

Danarius brought a hand up to the bridge of his nose, rubbing it in irritation, “No. He wants us at the front lines in Alam.” Anders went rigid, his heart immediately setting off at a gallop, “His exact words are, 'I cannot wait to see your son standing upon a mountain of Qunari corpses.' How idealistic.”

“Alam?” Anders breathed, and Fenris peered up at him, unaware of the danger such a thing entailed. Danarius set a hand on his hip, his brows raising, “You're... taking me to Alam?”

“Don't make me repeat myself,” Danarius replied with a snarl, waving the letter he had received in the air, “You should be happy. It looks like you won't have to suffer being imprisoned in your bed any longer.”

Anders could hardly breathe. His heart felt like it was going to burst with how hard it was pounding. His legs and arms began to felt numb, his head aching as if someone were squeezing down on him. His lungs were constricting, his vision growing blurry. He didn't even hear his father telling them they were leaving immediately. All he knew was that he needed to escape, needed to get out.

_The window._

_Won't hurt Fenris again..._

_A sleeping spell is harmless._

“Master?” Fenris whispered, putting a hand on Anders' knee. The mage flinched, his eyes jumping to Fenris' wary gaze.

“I... I can't...” He whispered, shaking his head, “I can't go. I can't go!” He cried out now, louder, “I'm not going!”

“You hardly have a choice, Anders. Don't make this difficult for me.” Danarius sighed, already heading for the doorway, “Pack your things and meet me by the door. Fenris, make sure—“

_Don't let him go!_

“You won't take me there!” Anders shouted, throwing a messy sleeping spell at his father, striking him right in between his shoulder blades.

“Master Danarius!” Fenris shouted, scrambling towards Danarius and pulling the man into his arms. He checked his breath, checked his pulse, and when he concluded the man was merely asleep, he looked at Anders and demanded, “Wake him up! Now!”

“Excuse me?” Anders gasped, getting up from the bed on shaking legs so he could hunt around his room for proper clothes. He couldn't stay in Qarinus any longer. No, he couldn't stay in the Imperium any longer. He couldn't go to Alam at all, he would die the moment he stepped on that island. He pulled on a pair of trousers, then grabbed a nearby robe at random, “No. I need to leave. Fenris!” He turned to his elf, seeing he was still holding his sleeping father in his arms, “Come with me.”

Fenris stared at him, mouth hanging open in silent disbelief. Anders clenched his jaw at his lack of reaction, so he said more sternly, “Fenris, come with me! We need to go!”

“I.... I can't...” Fenris mumbled, looking down at Danarius and holding him tighter. “It is against his commands...”

“I don't care about Danarius! We cannot go to Alam! Don't you understand? We will die there!” Anders begged, taking a few steps towards the elf, planning to just snatch him away. Fenris clenched his jaw, but still refused to give. Anders felt his anger reach a head, but he kept his temper down.

“Don't you love me?” Anders asked, shocking Fenris into looking at him again.

“Master?” Fenris whispered, his eyes wide, round, and vulnerable.

“Don't you love me, Fenris? Won't you come with me? We can be together like this, away from this place.” Anders continued to convince him, kneeling down beside him and putting a hand on his cheek, “Please, Fenris... I need you with me.”

Fenris' eyes searched Anders', looking for something Anders wasn't certain of. The elf sucked in a terrified breath, tears turning his eyes glassy. His lips trembled, his hands clutched the front of Danarius' robes, and with one last prayer to the Maker, Fenris hoped he would be making the right decision.

\----------------

The tavern was alight with exciting energy, the crewmen singing loudly, some arm-wrestling, others playing rigged card games against themselves and the locals. They were all enjoying the drink they had earned from their hard month-and-a-half-long trip from the very bottom of Ferelden to this cheery port in Tevinter. It had been a stormy month and a half, but their quest was successful, and their pockets were now lined with their payment.

Or at least, the captain of the Siren's Call made sure hers were.

Isabela joined in on a toast with a few of her nearby crewmen, laughing as they continued a jovial jaunt about a busty barmaid and how they'd like to have her. She threw in a verse of her own, much to the delight of her men, and she laughed even harder when beer sloshed down their arms as they rose for another toast.

She began to chug her drink, planning to get good and drunk by nightfall. Now that they were on land, Isabela was looking forward to having a little mischievous fun of her own. She couldn't have been in a better place for such activities. Mages never scared her, not in the way they seemed to scare most other Maker-fearing, Chantry-going citizens. Mostly because she knew how much their talents could benefit them in the bedroom.

And the men and women in this cute harbor town were rather cute themselves. They weren't nobles, which was good. Isabela couldn't stand the snobbery and the entitled expectations they had half the time. These were just hardworking men and women, taking time off of their busy schedule to enjoy a good drink at a good tavern.

She was just ordering her third mug of ale when the tavern doors burst open, admitting a frazzled-looking young man who nearly tripped over the nearest table in his haste. The tavern fell silent, the bard in the corner putting his hands over the lute strings to quell its vibrations. The bartender looked to man's way, expectant. The tavern door swung shut once more.

“Uh,” The man vocalized first, still trying to catch his breath. Isabela watched in vague interest as he straightened out his robes, shifted something in his pocket, then fiddled with the silver amulet at his neck, displaying a noble's heraldry upon it. A few of the locals seemed to straighten up at the sight of him.

The man took a step further into the room, his eyes searching the crowd, but when he couldn't find who he was looking for, he merely called out, “Alright, where is the captain for the Siren's Call? That... ship sitting at the docks?”

Isabela's men looked her way. She polished off her drink slowly, listening as the man marched towards her. Once her mug was empty, she set it down on the table and looked right at her new guest. He sat stiffly in the seat across from her, a bag already in front of him.

“I need passage to Ferelden.” He said, opening the bag and pushing it her way, “I don't care for the price. I don't care if this isn't enough. I can get you more gold—half my weight, in fact.”

Isabela's brows rose immediately. Peering into the bag, she saw he wasn't lying. The whole sack was filled with sovereigns, and with a brief test by biting them to ensure they were real, Isabela put a smirk on her face.

“I don't smuggle slaves, sweetheart.” She said, digging through the bag and counting them out, making a show of inspecting each one lazily. This only made the mage noble squirm.

“No slaves. No one else. Just me to Ferelden, untouched, well-fed, and healthy.” He bargained, putting his shaking hands on the table.

“I don't help criminals escape, either,” Isabela added, pretending as if one coin seemed illegitimate for a moment, but the man didn't flinch at her scrutiny. He was being legitimate.

“Not a criminal.” He promised, squeezing his eyes shut and gripping his hands into fists, “Just... Just need to leave. Please. Right now.”

“I'm curious,” Isabela grinned, and the mage ran his hands through his hair anxiously, irritated by her malaise pace, “Why do you want to leave so badly? Surely you must have done something.”

“I didn't—!” He growled, slamming his fists on the table and leaving scorch marks where they landed. Isabela rose a brow and leaned back in her seat, no longer amused. The mage seemed to take himself back a notch, sucking in a calming breath, and he started again, “I didn't do anything. Please, I... I'm just trying to escape my father. He's going to kill me.”

The tavern doors swung open again, one of Isabela's men stepping inside this time. “Captain!” He shouted, sounding urgent, “A battalion of armed men are coming, says they're searching for some Prince!”

“Kaffas!” The man across from Isabela spat out, his face growing pale, “Please! You have to help me!”

Ignoring him for the moment, Isabela stood up and told her men, “Stay calm. If we don't make ourselves suspicious, they won't take a second look at us.” She grabbed the sack of coin from the table, looking expectantly at the mage, “Prince, huh?”

“Yes! Worth a lot! Could put a good price on me!” He gasped, getting to his feet and clasping his hands together, “Just take me to Ferelden! I don't care what I have to do to get there!”

A ruckus from outside grabbed their attention, men shouting and metal scraping. Doors were being thrown open in the buildings surrounding them. The mage began breathing harder.

“There's no more time! Please!” He begged louder, looking back to the startled Captain and even dropping to her knees before her, “You can't let them take me!”

The tavern doors burst open, the armed men being led by an elven soldier dressed from head to toe in black armor, a giant two-handed sword at his back.

“My Prince!” The elven soldier shouted, his voice muffled my his helmet. He looked back at his men and barked out, “Apprehend him!”

“No!” The mage shouted. Isabela watched as he was grabbed by the arms and yanked to his feet. He reached out to her, grabbing her by the front of her shirt. Isabela gasped as she stumbled forward, grabbing onto him to keep herself steady.

“Please! Please!” He begged, though for what, the Captain wasn't sure anymore. This close to him, though, she could see the fear deep in his eyes, the genuine terror within him. The guards yanked at the mage, making something in Isabela's grip snap, and then she was being shoved off of him.

“Stop! I don't want to go! You can't take me to Alam! You can't take me to Alam!” The mage was shouting as they dragged him out of the tavern, all under the watchful gaze of the elf in black armor.

When the men cleared out of the room, the elf suddenly turned his hidden gaze upon Isabela. Tucking whatever had snapped off of the mage between her breasts, Isabela then set her hands on her hips and allowed the guard to approach her.

In one stiff motion, he thrust his hand out to her, palm upwards and open. Isabela eyed the claw-tipped gauntlets with a frown, but when she didn't otherwise act, the guard demanded, “Return the gold the Prince mistakenly left.”

Isabela pursed her lips. She looked at his armor, looked at his sword, then looked at the sack of gold in her hands. She could definitely take this idiot. She had half the crew with her in this tavern, and he was but one elf.

But Isabela was in no mood to make enemies with a noble mage family from Tevinter, especially when they referred to the eldest man as a Prince. She also had no desire to take coin she did not deserve nor steal herself. There was just no fun in it.

So with a frown, she dropped the sack of gold into the waiting hand of the elf. Slowly, his arm retracted, holding the gold close to his body. He continued to stare at her, his eyes hidden by a visor. She wondered for a moment if he was going to attack her anyways. Her knives were within reach. Her fingers itched to pull them out.

“You have my Master's gratitude,” The elf said instead, inclining his head towards her before he turned and left. Isabela watched him leave, not moving from her spot until the tavern door swung shut one last time.

The tavern remained silent. Even the locals were staring wide-eyed into their mugs. Her crew turned to look at her, awaiting a final decision.

Pulling the amulet from between her breasts, Isabela looked over the heraldry impressed into the silver coin hanging from the chain. Running her thumb over it, feeling the ridges within the image, Isabela began to grin. She had vowed to never go near Seheron, nor any of the Qunari in her entire life. She had promised this to herself the day she was sold by her mother under the will of the Qun.

But what sounded more exciting than saving this terrified young mage from being sent to the front lines of war against his will? Besides, the Qunari just had to have something she could steal. She didn't even bother to consider how much of herself she saw in this man.

“Well, boys... I hear Seheron looks awful nice this time of year.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are greatly appreciated! And adored.


	5. Alam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, had to split a chapter in two. The next one shouldn't be too far behind, but once I started nearing the 24k mark, i figured it might be better to chop this one in half.
> 
> Tags for dub-con and non-con!
> 
> edit: wow i totally forgot the last two paragraphs oopsies.

Alam was the Tevinter base on the coastline of an utter war zone. That much became obvious as soon as they were in sight of the harbor. Tevinter battlemages and warriors were all decked out in glittering armor, marching in neat, crisp lines and practicing their trade in sectioned off barracks. Prisoners of war, all hulking Qunari, were paraded through the streets of the encampment, chained from head to toe in a line as they were lead to a well-guarded cobblestone building, which Fenris assumed had to be a sort of jailhouse. It was the second loudest building in the encampment, the first being the local tavern.

Anders had been inconsolable throughout the majority of the trip. Fenris didn't understand why until now. He didn't know of the war between Tevinter and the Qunari. He had hardly heard of the Qunari until Danarius had received the letter from the Archon, in fact. And seeing the monstrous-looking creatures was shocking. They were built like humans, but much larger, both in height and muscle mass. Their skin tones ranged from bronze to silver to even gold, which contrasted beautifully against their pale white hair, broken up by a variety of horns not entirely unlike a bull.

Fenris began to wonder if it was such a good idea to be here. Sure, Anders had displayed a magnificent strength, certainly one that would rival even these beasts of muscle, but he was hardly stable. It wasn't a given that he would attack the Qunari and only them, and Fenris didn't want to know what might happen to his master should he turn on their country.

Since Danarius was a Magister, they were allowed to inhabit a small wooden cabin instead of a tent. The cabin came with two cots, a basin to bathe in, and even a fireplace for them to keep warm. There was no kitchen since the troops had to live off of carefully divided portions, but Fenris was certain their portion would be a little less carefully divided. Nobody would want to risk upsetting a Magister or his Archon-apprentice son.

Even though the cabin was comfortable and the food bountiful, Anders still sulked. Danarius had grown tired of it quickly and would ignore his son, but Fenris wouldn't give up so easily. He tried and tried again to make things better, would even creep into his bed in the middle of the night to hold him and whisper in his ear. Anders had stopped pushing him away, but he didn't return the gestures, either. He would just lay there and cry quietly into his pillow. Sometimes he would ask Fenris why he hated him, but no matter how vehemently Fenris said he didn't, Anders would ask it again.

The first week there wasn't bad. Danarius either stayed in the cabin or met with other dignitaries to enhance his political standing. Certainly, his image in the public's eye would be bolstered when they heard how he was selflessly volunteering his time to be here, in the front lines. Despite the fact that he wouldn't see a moment of battle much less partake in it. Fenris was sent to train with the other warriors, mostly consisting of humans and a few elves who had received citizenship. The idea was baffling to the slave, an elf that could be seen as a person and not a thing, but he was ultimately unimpressed when he discovered that, despite their citizenship, they were still treated like dirt, often made to run errands or polish the armor. Fenris was nearly roped into similar activities, but Danarius had sent him there to train, and he wouldn't let his master down. His disobedience to these men and women made him a target, and he was picked on often during sparring. Fenris took each challenge with a stiff upper lip. After all, it only made him stronger.

And for Anders, Fenris saw him be whisked away to join the battlemages for training. It was a delicate art, to be able to perform spells and hexes while also focusing on hand-to-hand combat, or rather, defense. It required intense focus, a high pain tolerance, and a strong will. Fenris had no doubts that Anders could easily fulfill those necessities. The only issue was convincing him to apply himself.

Since he was so adept at healing and creation magic, Anders began to rely on his shields to protect him. Where they couldn't, Anders would merely heal the wounds away. He didn't seem to think twice of the pain it took to use such a method. He was absolutely determined to remain stubborn, it seemed.

Despite their blatant refusal to train, at the start of the new week, all three of them were sent out into the field. Danarius wasn't worried for even a moment. He knew Fenris would protect him. Danarius wouldn't even have to cast a single spell aside from a shield. Anders, on the other hand, was trembling in his leather boots. He was certain this would be the end of all three of them. He had never seen battle before--unless one were to count petty duels between Altus. Even during the Games, Anders had been blindfolded for the majority.

The two mages were given staves while Fenris was armored in the same black piece Danarius crafted for him, finally completed. Though he now bore flexible metal greaves and spikes adorned his shoulder plates, there was no codpiece. Fenris wondered if Anders would remark on it. He did not. The two mages were dressed in light armor and told to stay near the back, to allow the warriors to defend them. Fenris was ordered to stay in the front lines, but upon setting foot on enemy territory, he dipped back and kept to his masters.

The battle didn't start immediately. All they heard was the muted patter of a hundred feet hitting the ground as they moved forward, the shuttering of armor from each impact, and the labored breathing of themselves. Fenris lifted the visor to his armor, allowing himself to see more of the area they were in.

The trees were thick and sloping as if the weight of the heat they were in was physically pressing down on them. Anders trailed a shaking hand along his brow, wiping away the sweat. Fenris wished he could do the same, but decided it was safer to keep his helmet on. Their marching pace began to slow as each soldier grew tired. They were supposed to be clearing a path through the enemy territory to set up a camp so that they could grow their own territory, but so far, it looked as if this was unclaimed ground.

Fenris let his hand drop from the hilt of his sword, his posture growing more relaxed. His ears were twitching underneath his helmet, the thing dulling his senses just a bit, but not enough to be anything more than annoying. He heard nothing in the distance, no approaching footfalls, no whisper in another language... nothing.

“Maybe they're nocturnal.” One soldier decided to suggest aloud, his voice loud over the rattling armor and marching feet. The soldier beside him laughed, raising a hand to slap on the back of his companion.

Fenris heard the whistling first. His hand darted right back to his blade and drew the weapon just as a spear sunk home in a soldier's chest, piercing the armor with a loud, sharp and brief squeal. The man gurgled, his body wavering as his muscles tried to keep him upright, and then he fell in a heap.

A thick downpour of spears followed soon after, whistling in tandem. Fenris threw his arms out to his sides, blindly finding his masters behind him, and he reeled them backward, making sure all three of them were out of range. Other soldiers were darting away as well. Most of those standing in the middle were impaled. Blood was soaking into the ground already.

“Maker,” Anders sobbed, followed by the smack of his staff falling to the ground.

“Blasted child, pick up your weapon and fight!” Danarius scolded, shoving at his son until he was following it down, falling to his hands and knees right beside the wood. The Qunari appeared from between the trees, swords and knives in hand, looking just as menacing with sweat running down their forms and their faces painted in a variety of garish colors as they had when they were silently walking towards the jailhouses. Most of them focused on the soldiers between them and Fenris, going after them without restraint. The one Qunari leading the crowd, however, had his eyes set on the two mages and elf in black armor.

He walked forward with a purpose, his hands empty of a weapon and, instead, gripping a metal chain that lead behind him in one fist and a short, blunt, bronze metal rod in the other. The further he walked from the thick trees, the more the chain was exposed until, finally, at the very end of it, came yet another Qunari, chained, masked, and slouched as he followed.

“ _Saarebas,_ ” The Qunari holding the chain spoke, his voice deep and gritty. The rod in his hand began to glow at the end, and the masked Qunari behind him seemed to twitch in response, “ _Asaaranda._ ”

The chained Qunari slowly lifted its head, dark eyes only just visible under the metal mask it wore, and magic began to coagulate around the field. Anders' breath came faster, but Danarius remained calm. He regarded the feel of the magic, the way it tasted, the way it smelled, and muttered simply, “Electricity. Let's step out of range.”

Danarius walked away casually as if this were not a war they were in nor a battle that could kill them. Fenris had to crouch down to grab Anders' arm and yank him away, allowing the mage just enough time to scramble for his staff before he was pulled along.

A thunderstorm covered the field. The Qunari leading the mage Qunari continued to watch Fenris and his masters. Fenris kept his gaze challengingly. More men fell to the enemy and the spell.

“Fenris, kill the Saarebas,” Danarius ordered, and Fenris stood straighter, working out which Qunari Danarius was talking about.

“You're sending him out there? Are you insane?” Anders blurted, panicked through and through.

“He is doing no good standing here. The fewer Qunari there are, the better off we are.” Danarius explained even as Fenris decided the Saarebas had to be the mage Qunari and promptly dove into the thick of it.

“Fenris--!” Anders shouted after him, but Danarius held him back with a strong hand and cast a series of shields over the two of them.

“Get yourself together!” Danarius spat out at his son, all the while Fenris was dodging the last few shocks of lightning, skirting around Tevinter soldiers and Qunari, and ending up right in front of the Saarebas' master.

“ _Vashedan!_ ” The Qunari master blurted, lifting the copper rod to strike Fenris and urge him back again. The Saarebas behind him lifted its bound hands, the shackles around its wrist clattering as a ball of pure lightning swelled in the palm of his hand.

From that first day Fenris had discovered the ability, Danarius decided it was a skill to look into. While they were still in Minrathous, Danarius watched as Fenris practiced using his lyrium to phase partially into the Fade. The training was exhausting and painful, the lyrium burning like hot knives digging into the most sensitive parts of his body. The more of himself he phased, the greater the pain he suffered.

That being said, Fenris was a slave who was well-trained by Danarius himself. He was expected to withstand pain in order to perform his daily tasks without delay. Not to mention that his very first waking memory was of being birthed into a consciousness tormented by pain.

So Fenris believed his pain tolerance to have gotten pretty strong. An arrow in his shoulder may have brought him down barely a year ago, but now he was able to do this.  
His brands lit. The Saarebas faltered and his master reeled back in shock. Fenris drew back his sword, forcing his arm to phase into the Fade. His fist clung to the sword, dragging the metal into intangibility. The Saarebas' master began to bring the copper rod down, aiming for Fenris' helmet, but aided by the lyrium, Fenris was faster.

His blade sunk into the master, along with his hand, arm, and elbow. He did all of this without bringing the beast harm, and when Fenris saw his blade emerge from the back of the Qunari, he allowed his limb, from the sword tip down, to reenter the waking world.

Without losing speed, the blade thrust towards the Saarebas. With its raised arms, the tip caught in the chain binding the manacles on his wrist on its journey to the creature's innards. The chain broke apart from the strain, the sword dug into the Saarebas' chest cavity, and Fenris' entire arm became tangible again, slamming the elf against the Qunari's torso from his forward momentum.

Fenris had practiced this move plenty of times back in Minrathous. On straw, wooden, and even human test dummies. He knows what will happen when his arm finds itself existing in the same space as something else; the something else will replace Fenris' arm in the Fade. This kills the dummy, turning it into deadweight that Fenris can toss aside. Ideally, Fenris would be doing the very same thing at this point, tossing a dead Qunari aside.

But the Qunari are much bigger than him. Much bigger than humans. And much heavier, as well. While the Qunari begins to die from its now punctured organs, Fenris attempts to shoulder the beast away and remove his arm. Both actions prove to be... difficult.

“Kaffas!” Fenris gasped, dropping his sword in a panic and shoving at the Qunari's bulk with his free arm. He can feel the beast's muscles clenching around him, holding him in place. Fenris looked up at the Qunari, meeting his magenta gaze. The creature was still lucid, much to Fenris' surprise, and he dropped the copper rod to grab Fenris by his shoulder.

Tearing the elf from his torso did three things. The most direct thing was it ultimately killed the Qunari. The second thing it did was absolutely shatter Fenris' arm, causing the elf to howl as he was thrown aside. Fenris hit the ground awkwardly, making the elf fall backward onto his ass. Another Qunari soldier spied Fenris sitting prone in the middle of the battlefield, unarmed and injured, and he charged towards him, sword at the ready. The third thing that happened was both the most indirect thing and yet the most important.

Anders broke.

Just as the Qunari was approaching Fenris, a wall of ice shot up from the ground between them. Following that was a shield spell, wrapping around Fenris like a warm blanket. Then, a burst of healing magic, that made his lyrium sparkle to life and his body tremble.

The Qunari smashed through the ice, his sword swiping through the spell shield with no hindrance. Fenris wondered for a moment why Anders didn't cast an arcane shield on him instead if he was to face off a Qunari with a blade. Fenris began to scoot himself back, his broken arm limp in his lap as the healing spell put him back together, but he didn't move far when he felt his back press against a pair of legs.

Looking up, Fenris caught sight of his master standing there, staff in hand and eyes glowing an unreal blue. Cracks of fade began to appear along his skin, first around his eyes and temples and then in his hands as he summoned the next spell.

The Qunari was blown back with a powerful stonefist, and with him safely out of attacking range, Anders knelt down and wrapped his arms around his slave, one hand settling on the bicep of his broken arm, the other at the wrist.

“Take a breath,” Anders whispered. Fenris sucked in a fast and shaking breath, and then the mage yanked at his wrist, straightening out his arm and making the elf cry out once more. A burst of healing magic later, and Fenris' arm was healed and in working condition, albeit quite sore. Fenris stretched his arms, flexed his fingers, then he looked back at his master in awe, seeing his eyes were still glowing a brilliant blue, fully overtaking the sclera as well.

“Go to Danarius,” Anders ordered next, putting his arms under Fenris' armpits and lifting him effortlessly to his feet, “I will take care of the rest.”

“But Master—“ Fenris immediately began to argue, about to say that it was his job to protect Anders, not the other way around. However, the mage silenced him with a stern look, and he gestured towards Danarius, still standing a distance away.

“Go,” Anders said, and this time Fenris obeyed. Running to Danarius' side, the Magister scowled at the elf, but essentially wrapped the two of them in shields.

“I would be more disappointed, but it seems like this is exactly what we needed,” Danarius mentioned offhandedly, more to himself than to the slave. Fenris stared forward, watching Anders as he stepped into the center of the battle.

Most of the Tevinter soldiers had been slain. Only a few of the experienced warriors and battlemages remained standing, though they were mostly facing individual Qunari in groups. They continued to fight for their lives as Anders allowed the magic to swell inside of him.

Another spell shield was cast over Fenris and Danarius, much stronger than the one Danarius had cast himself. With that shield in place, Anders lowered himself gracefully to a crouching position, setting both hands flat on the ground.

The ground began to shake, throwing both the Qunari and the Tevinter soldiers off-balance. Recognizing an earthquake spell right off the bat, the Tevinter soldiers abandoned their fights and ran out of Anders' range. The Qunari, meanwhile, struggled to keep their footing as the world under them raged.

Anders regarded his enemies. There were only five Qunari left, and yet they had managed to take down a battalion of soldiers. It was impressive, Anders thought. It was a shame they had hurt his slave because now Anders had to kill them.

Tilting his head to the side, Anders let the earthquake dispel, though he remained crouched. The Qunari regained their balance, then took the bait and began to crowd around Anders. Bearing their weapons, they planned to dispatch the powerful mage before finishing off the remainder of the battalion. Anders, however, had other plans.

As soon as they were close enough to one another, Anders allowed a chain lightning spell to erupt, striking first the closest approaching Qunari and quickly branching off to the remaining four. This killed one and left the others stunned, but that allowed Anders to summon a death cloud, completely surrounding the Qunari. He could hear them choke, could feel their life draining. Anders slowly stood upright, and with precise aim, he blasted each enemy with another shock of lightning.

They fell one by one, and when Anders heard that fourth heavy thump of a Qunari hitting the ground, he allowed the death cloud to dissipate. The remaining soldiers looked at him in awe. The shields around Danarius and Fenris vanished. Danarius stepped forward with a grin on his face.

“Toth...” Danarius breathed reverently, stepping forward and holding out his hands in a welcoming gesture. Anders barely gave him a passing glance as he approached, though his eyes slowly faded back to brown, “It is such an honor to be in your presence. I am Danar—“

Anders shouldered past his father with a scowl, muttering heatedly, “I know who you are, father.” He continued forward, pausing in front of Fenris to pass a brief healing spell over him, making sure he didn't miss anything from before. Danarius physically deflated at being snuffed, looking back at his son with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“Anders...” He remarked, far more disappointed than before, “It's... still just you.”

Once certain that Fenris wasn't suffering from any hidden injuries or internal bleeding, Anders turned and regarded his father again, a scowl on his face. The muscles at the corners of his lips were twitching, either with strain or annoyance.

“We're returning to camp.” Anders decided, meeting his father's gaze unwaveringly, “The mission has failed. You will tell the captain this. Fenris and I will retire to the cabin to recuperate. You will not return until nightfall.”

Danarius immediately frowned, not at all enjoying being told what to do, as if he were the slave. He advanced on Anders with three quick strides, thrusting a finger roughly against his son's chest, and spat out accusingly, “You think you have any right to tell me what to do?! You are but a child!”

In a breath, Anders was overtaken by that ethereal blue once again, and in a deep, threatening voice overlaying his own, he declared, “I am a God and you will do as I say! If I ask you to kneel before me and lick my boots clean, you will do so reverently, father or not!”

Danarius reeled back, as did Fenris and the remaining troops, who had hesitated on the order to retreat solely because they did not want to go without Anders for protection. Danarius swallowed thickly, a fat bead of sweat following the line of his jaw. He thought about arguing his point further, but he only got a breath in before Anders warned, “Obey, or I will force you to.”

Danarius had no further objections. Nor did any of the remaining soldiers. In a group only a fraction of its original size, they limped and hobbled back to camp. Danarius left to speak with the captain, perhaps share dinner with her and a glass or two of wine. Anders pulled Fenris with him back to the cabin.

Upon entering the cabin, Anders grabbed Fenris with Fade-cracked hands and all but threw the elf down onto the chaise lounge in the front room. The elf grunted awkwardly, his armor digging into soft flesh and his arm still sore. Anders wasted no time in shucking off his robes, bright blue eyes staring holes into the elf. Fenris shuddered under his gaze, but knowing what was expected of him, he began to hastily work the latches of his armor free.

Anders was naked far before Fenris had his armor off, but the mage didn't seem too keen on waiting much longer. With a firm but harmless mind blast, Anders forced the slave onto his back against the cushions, slightly disoriented but still conscious. Using this position to his advantage, Anders quickly straddled Fenris' head, his knees digging into the cushions and his cock standing half-hard before his mouth.

“Open up,” Anders bid him, one hand on his shaft and the other running soothingly through Fenris' white-and-black hair. Fenris obeyed without hesitation, sighing comfortably through his nose as Anders filled his mouth. Lying back like this, Fenris couldn't move his head to take him any deeper, though that didn't mean he didn't try. Anders made up for the loss of friction on his end, hunching over Fenris' head with one hand still tangled in his locks, thrusting into that wet channel.

Fenris tried to breathe steadily through his nose and he looked up at Anders, enjoying the way those glowing eyes fell half-lidded with arousal, the way his lips parted with heated breath, only to find their way between teeth. Fenris flexed his tongue, gripped Anders' hips tighter, tried to suck him back in each time he retreated. Anders groaned, his voice echoing in the back of his throat, and then he was pulling away.

A thick line of saliva desperately clung to the skin of his cock, landing helplessly across Fenris' chin and neck. Anders stood from the lounge, his face, ears, shoulders glowing red and his cock looking strained.

“Go to the bedroom. Undress yourself completely,” Anders ordered, his words trembling in desire. Fenris didn't wait to be told twice, practically leaping from the chaise and racing towards their room, shedding as many pieces of armor and under armor as he could before he reached the door. Anders waited behind for a few tense moments, taking the time to hex the door, dissuading any unwanted visitors – namely Danarius – from entering lest they want to lose a limb or two in a wall of ice. With that set, Anders began to follow the trail of clothes and armor to the bedroom, grinning widely when he spied the slave's small clothes at the door.

Looking up at the elf kneeling nude on the bed, Anders was overcome with lust.

“On your hands and knees,” Anders commanded, slowly walking towards the bed. Fenris' breath caught in his chest and he obeyed without a word, presenting himself to his master. “Beautiful,” Anders complimented him breathlessly, kneeling on the cot gracefully before he ran both hands along the line of Fenris' hips. He could feel the heat inside of him, could feel the desire. The power locked in those lyrium lines.

A grease spell made the first finger slip inside easily. Fenris took it without a word, only sighing blissfully at the intrusion. Anders grinned, in love with the thought that Fenris' body remembered his own and craved intimacy just as eagerly. He worked him with two fingers, the squeeze comfortable and Fenris relaxed.

“Tell me what you want of me,” Anders whispered to his slave, and Fenris shuddered at the tone.

“I want you in me, Master,” Fenris replied unhurriedly, even wiggling his hips to try and entice Anders to move along, “It has been so long... I was afraid you no longer wanted me...”

“I want you,” Anders breathed, a hand roaming up Fenris' spine, then dragging his nails back down, “I want you to crave me.”

“I do, Master,” Fenris groaned, his back bowing under his sharp touch. Anders pressed a third finger inside, finally getting that brief hiss of unexpected pain.

“I want you to be mine,” Anders whispered, burying his fingers deep inside his slave, making Fenris jolt and cry out.

“I am! All yours, Master!” Fenris whimpered in pleasure, throwing his head back as Anders worked his prostate. Anders reached forward and grabbed him by his hair, yanking the elf upright until they were chest-to-back. Fenris whined, both at the pull on his scalp and at Anders' retreating fingers. Anders ran his tongue along the side of his neck, his breath hot against his skin, and he summoned another handful of grease.

“I want you to submit to me,” Anders breathed into his ear. Fenris shuddered, his mouth falling open to respond, but no words came. Only a thought crossed his mind, confusing and unsettling in its presence.

This isn't Anders.

The thought is wiped from his mind as soon as he's penetrated, and Fenris groans in a mixture of relief and fear. Fade-cracked hands shove Fenris back down onto his elbows, one settling at his hip while the other clutches his still aching shoulder, digging into the tissue and making his brands light up uncomfortably. Fenris cried out, a mix of pain and fear boiling in him. Anders began to move, thrusting into Fenris' pliant body mercilessly.

The elf choked on his breath, that blue glow pouring from his skin as much as it was from Anders' eyes. Underneath the ache in his ass and the soreness in his arm, a weird, heavy sort of pleasure began to burn in his abdomen. Fenris wanted it to stop. It felt strange, it felt... wrong.

The hand on his shoulder slipped closer to his neck. The one on his hip came up onto the other side. Fenris reached back, grabbing Anders' hip and digging his nails into his skin. His body was being jolted forward with each rough thrust, Anders' hands clamping down tighter on him, the glowing cracks in his skin spreading and making his lyrium burn. Fenris cried out loudly, tears rimming his eyes and throbbing pleasure filling him.

“Master—“ Fenris tried saying, but the words were fucked out of him before they could come. His head dropped forward with a meaningless groan, Anders' hands gripping his neck tighter, making the elf wheeze. He began to rock back into Anders, trying to get away from his hands, trying to allow a deeper breath to slip down his throat, trying to chase more of that ecstasy. His mind was clouding over, a constant mantra of this isn't Anders, this is wrong, and I need more repeating in his thoughts.

“No more,” Fenris finally whimpered out, though he clutched at Anders' hip tightly and was rocking back into every motion of his master. Tears were rolling down his cheeks. He knew Anders could feel them drip onto his hands, still clutched around his neck. Fenris tried to tear them away with his free hand, but that only forced Anders to hold him up by his throat, cutting off his esophagus even more. Fenris hated it. He hated the heat and the thrumming, throbbing sensation of perfect bliss that was overwhelming him.

“Anders, please—“ Fenris begged, but the mage cut into his sentence with a deep, final thrust, burying himself into his raw ass and spilling over. Fenris' body jerked, his own cock straining as he teetered on the edge, and then Anders' hands were pulling away from his throat, allowing the elf desperately needed air. His mind felt like it was miles into the Fade, far, far from his body, and yet the shattering climax that hit him was just as immediate.

He lay trembling on the bed as Anders pulled away. He watched his master as the cracks slowly faded from his skin and his eyes melted back into tawny, pulling on his sleeping robes in jerky movements.

“Anders...?” Fenris called out to him, catching the mage's eye. It looked like him. Walked like him. Smiled like him. Fenris wondered if Anders at all knew the turmoil he had just forced his slave into. He wondered if Anders knew the incomparable pleasure he experienced.

“Sleep, pet,” Anders whispered, his voice the same, but his words unsettling, “Master is here for you.”

Fenris' eyes grew heavy, from the physical and mental exhaustion paired with the warm sleeping spell draped over him like a blanket. He struggled to cling to reality for just a moment longer, wanting to ask what had happened, why Anders was acting like this, but the Fade was far too tempting, the bed much too warm, and Anders' kiss on his brow relaxing.

He slept in bliss. Woke to a body wrapped around his with a hand settled possessively over the center of his chest. Everything felt right in the world, felt safe, but Fenris still couldn't shake the feeling of... infidelity.

They were sent out into the field again. This time with a smaller group, though their mission was to merely spot the enemy and retreat. The battlemages were told to keep in the back while the soldiers and scouts took the front. Fenris planned to slip away from the front lines to keep an eye on his masters like before, but as they made their way deeper into the forest, Anders made his way to the front lines.

“Master?” Fenris blurted in surprise when the mage fell into step with his slave. The mage, much more relaxed than before, grinned at Fenris and sent him a cocky wink. Fenris felt heat coil in his abdomen, but he vehemently ignored it, “It isn't safe for you up here.”

“Bullshit. I'm better on the front lines.” Anders said, using his staff as a walking stick as they made their way through the trees, “Besides, I don't want to miss a moment of battle.”

Fenris frowned, his brows furrowing, and he pointed out, “We are not to engage in the enemy... There will be too many of them...”

“Nonsense.” Anders brushed off Fenris' worries, striding even further ahead so he lead the group. Fenris felt uncertainty coil in his chest. He also felt the way his body ached for him, and he tried to ignore it with a tinge of shame. Instead of dwelling on it for long, Fenris fell to the back of the group to protect Danarius.

They walked silently for a time, Fenris' hand on the hilt of his sword and his ears perked before Danarius asked, “What has gotten into that boy?”

Fenris did his best to look over the heads and staves of the soldiers before him, catching sight of Anders chatting amiably with a mage beside him, laughing brightly without a care in the world.

“I... do not know, Master...” Fenris mumbled, albeit hesitantly. Danarius didn't seem all too displeased by his answer, for he was at an absolute loss himself. Despite their shared uncertainty, they marched with the rest of the group and fought alongside them when they ultimately found the battalion they were supposed to find and Anders ran right into the middle of them.

Fenris swore he was going to die from stress like this. Not only did he have to protect Danarius while he stood on the sidelines, but he had to keep an eye on his sporadic master, shielding himself on one side, choking three Qunari with a death cloud on the other, and discovering how sharp the knife at the bottom of his staff was all the while. Fenris struggled to clear out a few of the Qunari himself, especially those who were trying to attack Anders from a distance, all whilst keeping Danarius out of harm's way. Luckily this time around, they weren't part of the last few standing. Only two soldiers had fallen, one of them a mage, and Fenris was relieved to find that he could rely on them to distract the Qunari from his Master.

A joint firestorm between Anders and two other mages later and the last of the Qunari fell, charred an uneven coal-black. The Tevinter soldiers rejoiced in their victory, Anders at the center of it, and Fenris couldn't deny the heat that was burning at the base of his stomach, no matter how uncomfortable it made him feel.

Anders looked at his slave meaningfully, his smile turning into a sultry smirk, eyes twinkling in desire. Fenris felt his stomach flip and his ears burn, though luckily he knew Anders couldn't see it underneath his helmet. He also knew exactly what Anders would be expecting once they returned to the camp, but Fenris was determined not to let it happen again, not without it being the Anders Fenris knew and loved.

Once they were alone in their cabin, Fenris was absolutely determined to refuse his Master, to be disobedient and tell him no, once and for all. He felt Anders approach him from behind as Fenris pulled off his armor. Felt his hands slide onto his newly bared waist, gripping him with intent to turn him around. Fenris grabbed one of his wrists, planning to yank it away and tell Anders that he didn't want this tonight.

For all that he meant to do, Fenris found himself disappointed with himself the very next morning, waking up nude beside his master with his ass sore. Last night's events replayed in his mind, the way Fenris determinedly pushed Anders away, only to follow after him and throw the mage onto the ground. He meant to tell him no, that he was not going to be Anders' pet tonight, but his words came out wrong and instead he was tearing at the mage's clothes.

He never wanted to sleep with Anders when he was acting so cocky and uncaring, but there he was, holding Anders down with his body while he fucked himself on his cock. He didn't want to be caught under that sly, possessive gaze as if Anders had planned it all to happen like this, but it was that stare that made him cum, his body twitching in ecstasy as he spilled himself on Anders' stomach.

And he certainly didn't mean to allow Anders to pull him to the bed afterward and take him a second time, working Fenris' traitorous body back into a state of arousal again as he stroked evenly into him. Their bodies hummed with the Fade, Fenris' lyrium lines pulsing with the erratic beat of his heart and Anders' eyes and hands splitting like cracked glass. The second time Fenris came it was with a whimper, all the while Anders filled his body up to the brim with his seed.

The week progressed like this. They were sent out on a mission, Fenris protected Danarius while Anders grew more and more bloodthirsty, and when they returned home sore, tired and bathed in Qunari blood, Anders would send Danarius away and would indulge in the company of his slave. Fenris was an eager participant all the while, his body reacting to every touch, every look, even when his mind was at odds about it.

Towards the end of the week, the three of them were allowed a day in camp. Anders and Fenris predictably stayed in the cabin while Danarius went out and mingled for as long as he could. It was relaxing for all three of them, allowing them a chance to recuperate from the stress of constantly hiking through unknown territory and fighting for their lives.

As night fell, Fenris was sent to collect dinner for himself and his masters. He stood with the other soldiers, warriors and mages alike, three empty bowls in his hands as he waited for his turn to be served. The men around him chatted amiably, creating a calm, companionable air about them. Fenris enjoyed just being in the middle of it, even if none of them really looked his way. Laughter pealed from behind him, and Fenris wished he knew what had them so happy, wished he had caught that part of the conversation to secretly share their joy.

He shuffled closer to the front of the line, where a series of large, waist-high cauldrons sat upon a thick bed of burning coals. Mages flanked either side of the pots, keeping the coals lit and the food hot. Fenris' eyes followed the way one of the servants dipped the ladle past the mouth of the cauldron, only to bring it back up, overflowing with a thick porridge. Fenris felt his stomach rumble at the sight, he felt like he hadn't eaten in days from all that Anders made him do today. He didn't think he'd be eating enough tonight, either, though. Danarius was surprisingly ravenous, though all things considered, Fenris supposed the Magister was more used to eating banquets every night rather than a bowl of slop. That being said, the slave more often than not had to give up a portion of his meal to the man in order to sate his hunger.

Fenris shifted on his feet where he stood, his bare soles aching on the gravel. They had put him in boots when they traversed the Seheron jungles, more out of fear of poisonous creatures hiding in the underbrush and the bogs than for comfort. Either way, Fenris was grown slightly used to the padding, though the suffocation and stink his feet suffered from as a side effect was no fair trade off, in the elf's mind. Currently, a particularly sharp rock was digging into his heel, practically embedded into the skin at this point, and Fenris was reluctant to put the bowls down to try and pluck it out with his nails. He tried scraping his heel against the top of his other foot, hoping to knock it loose, but the sharp stinging implied he only pushed it in further.

The line shuffled forward and Fenris grit his teeth. He really didn't want to put the bowls down. He didn't like the thought of them getting dirty, but it would only be for a moment...

With a reluctant sigh, the elf squatted down carefully, placing the bowls right in front of him before he fell backward on his backside. Propping his injured foot onto the opposite thigh, Fenris provided himself with a good view of the offending rock. He was sure to bleed a little when it came out, but that didn't stop him from digging his nails into the skin around it.

He saw the men in front of him begin to move forward just as he caught the pebble between his nails and pulled. He managed to toss the rock aside and pick up the bowls again, getting back to his feet as the man standing behind him stepped around him, taking his place in the line. Fenris frowned but thought it wiser to not argue. If he was delayed any with their dinner, Danarius would be sure to discipline him.

Fenris sighed and looked down at the stack of empty bowls in his hands, telling himself it wasn't right for him to be irritated. He was a slave, and this man was free. Even if he did cut in line, it wouldn't do any good to fight him over it. What's one spot?

The line shuffled forward again regardless. Fenris made sure to keep up the pace, not wanting to lose his spot a second time. The man in front of him coughed into his fist. Another bout of laughter came from behind him. Someone was whistling a single note in the distance. Fenris wondered what would be in store for them tomorrow. Surely they wouldn't have two days in camp, especially after how well Anders has been doing in the field.

Fenris quickly dropped that train of thought. Anders had completely turned around since their first outing, and the elf wasn't entirely too sure if he liked it. Anders was a lot more brutal in the field, bloodthirsty to a fault with no desire to take mercy on anyone. Back in bed, he had become a possessive, demanding lover, with more nails and teeth used than before. It was exhilarating and exhausting in the best of ways, but Fenris found himself missing the gentle touches and languid kisses. He missed the slow rise to climax they experienced before, the way they seemed to worship each other passionately rather than try and beat their peak from each other.

Maybe if Fenris actually managed to request it of his master, Anders would go back to that, just for tonight. He surely hoped so. He wasn't sure how much more of Anders' incessant pounding he could take before his hips shattered.

At the front, the servant spooning out porridge poured a serving haphazardly, spilling hot porridge over the hand of the soldier. The woman hissed in pain, jolting out of harm's way and directly into the man behind her, which then shoved the man into the next soldier, causing a domino effect of shuffling feet and disgruntled shouts. Fenris clutched the bowls in his hands tightly when he was knocked into, but they were still knocked loose. Two fell to the ground unharmed, but the third shattered when it hit the gravel below at an odd angle.

Fenris cursed under his breath, scrambling to pick up the other two before scrambling feet caused them to break, too. Holding them firmly, Fenris began to get to his feet when the first strike to the warning bell was heard.

No one moved, at first. The men and women in line looked towards the sound, a line of heads turning in the same direction. Fenris managed to get to his feet, bowls pressed firmly to his gut. He searched the darkness for a reason for the warning bells. The Qunari hadn't been seen anywhere near their camp. Maybe this was a drill.

The sound of a stampede of soldiers caught Fenris' attention, and he stepped out of line and looked behind the masses, looking towards the tree line as opposed to the watch tower. He saw a few Tevinter soldiers break through, their run desperate, some of them limping, others carrying their brethren. Fenris' brow furrowed, and more soldiers in line for rations began to turn with Fenris, watching the jungle.

The first Qunari spotted came with the first fallen soldier, his blade catching the armored woman in the back just as she was escaping. Her gurgled cry made the world around Fenris tense. The beast stepped out of the jungle, set a booted foot against the soldier's back, and yanked the sword from her body, letting her fall with a clatter.

The smashing of hundreds of bowls as they were dropped to the ground followed soon after. The men in line scrambled back to the barracks, desperate to get suited up and arm themselves. The soldiers already armed and ready ran forward, swords and staves drawn. Fenris was knocked into by men running in both directions, his body lurching backward, then forwards, then backward again until he was being thrown to the ground, stomach, arms, and thighs pressing into the sharp porcelain pieces the bowls became.  
He looked towards the jungle as feet thundered down all around him. More Qunari appeared from the trees, their faces painted, their metallic skin glistening, their eyes focused. Fenris watched as Tevinter soldiers met the enemy head-on. He wanted to rise and join them, but he had left his sword and armor behind in the cabin.

Fenris felt his heart stop in his chest. The cabin.

Anders.

Pushing himself to his feet was hard when he had to avoid the stampeding soldiers around him, much less purposefully barreling against the tide of men to get to his masters. They were far from the jungle line, luckily. Fenris doubted they would be in any immediate danger.

He dodged and weaved through the soldiers artfully, making quick time between the chaos and the cabin. As the building came into view, Fenris saw the door swing open, Danarius running out with his staff and light armor first, and Anders following with a staff and Fenris' blade in hand next.

As the elf drew near, Anders tossed the sheathed sword at him. Catching it smoothly and slipping the sheath off of it soon after, the three of them stood, half-dressed in armor and only just armed.

“They attack from the jungle.” Fenris filled his masters in, his heart still pounding and his breath labored, “I am uncertain how many there are. Enough to make the forward group retreat.”

The warning bell that had been chiming rhythmically thus far suddenly stopped, only to be replaced by a faster, higher-pitched ringing. A call for a full retreat.

“Enough to make the rest of us retreat as well...” Danarius grunted, panic in his grey eyes, “Come. We are close to the docks. If we move quickly we will make it on board before those beasts can get halfway through the camp.”

“Excuse me? You expect us to retreat so easily?” Anders immediately argued, looking at his father with wide eyes, “How many of them have we killed thus far? This is but one more battle, in our own territory!”

“We didn't have an entire army at our heels! It takes at least three men to take down one Qunari, boy!” Danarius spat out, his already thinned patience snapping. Anders looked to be just at the edge of boiling over as well.

Stepping forward and jabbing a rough finger against his father's chest, Anders pointed out, “You were the one who brought us here in the first place!”

“The Archon was who summoned us, not I!” Danarius argued. Fenris felt his skin crawl when the cries of battle grew closer. He bit his lip. This wasn't the time to fight, but who was he to tell his masters that?

“Bullshit! You had every right to refuse such a request, no matter who from!” Anders claimed, throwing his hands out to his sides, the staff nearly knocking Fenris in the back of the head had the elf not lurched away just in time, “You wanted to drag me here and burn the rest of me out! You wanted me to perish so that damned thing you put in me would take over!” Anders' eyes sparkled to life, an unnatural blue ringing his irises and slowly consuming the rest, all the way to the edge of his sclera, “You wanted Toth so badly you didn't think of the consequences!”

Fenris could see the Qunari now, their horns glinting in the moonlight and their bodies covered in blood, both their own and their enemy's. Fenris' heart beat faster, the grip on his sword tightening. Okay, maybe he did need to speak up.

“Masters-” He tried, but neither of them was listening to him.

“I thought of the consequences plenty!” Danarius spat, standing up tall and unwavering, though his son did not back down either, “And believe me when I say that nothing, and I mean nothing, was worth more than tearing out the wretched, arrogant, worthless son of mine to leave a husk of a man for something much greater!”

Anders stared at Danarius evenly, his words surprisingly ineffective, and he muttered darkly, “Nothing but your own life.”

Finally, Fenris had enough. Turning to face his masters boldly, the elf spat out, “Enough! We must decide to run or fight, now!” Anders and Danarius looked at Fenris in shock, the younger mage's eyes spluttering out to reveal the tawny brown once more, but before they could admonish the slave for speaking out of turn, one of the nearby Qunari let out a roar and charged at them, sword raised high.

“Kaffas. You let them draw near!” Danarius spat, shoving at Fenris' shoulder to turn the elf towards the enemy. The elf snarled, but ran forward anyways, Danarius' final call following after him, “Kill them! Anders, to the boats!”

“What?” Anders blurted, surprised when Danarius began to head for the docks, willingly leaving Fenris behind.

“We must retreat, now!” Danarius said in exasperation, pausing in his stride to gesture to the docks, “Let the elf keep them off our backs!”

“He will die!” Anders gasped, looking towards the fighting slave as he successfully took down one of the beasts and immediately took after the next one, bloody blade swinging.

“We cannot leave him!”

“He is replaceable. You are not! We need to go!” Danarius urged, but Anders' face twisted in bitter refusal. With a blink, the Fade was back in his eyes, cracking along his skin and hands, and before Danarius could say another word, Anders twisted towards the battle, his body vanishing in a moment as he Fade stepped closer to the chaos.

“Kaffas! Anders!” Danarius cried, taking a reluctant step forward, then two more back. He did not want to die. He could not die. There were too many things at stake here, too many things to risk.

But Anders had been the only child to successfully receive Toth's power, and Danarius was no longer young. It had taken years, almost a decade even, to get to where he was now. Perhaps if the mother were still alive, Danarius wouldn't feel so cornered.

Spitting another curse under his breath, Danarius joined his son and slave in battle. If he could not save his son, then his studies would end there, with fame, fortune, and social standing just out of his reach. As he joined them, Danarius summoned his magic into the form of a blade at the very end of his staff, then followed it up with a large disruption field, slowing the Qunari down enough to make it seem like they were running through mud, not sand.

Anders captured a trio of Qunari in a lightning cage, a disturbing grin on his face as he toyed with them. Fenris was shoving another hulking body off of the end of his blade, panting hard as he gauged his surroundings. More soldiers were falling to the Qunari, who seemed to be endlessly spilling out of the jungle, appearing in twos and threes.  
“There is no end to them!” Fenris wheezed, disheartened. His muscles were sore and his lungs burned with each breath. He was starving and tired and he wasn't sure if they would survive this. More and more men were running past them for the boats, giving up on defending their land for safety instead.

“We must retreat!” Danarius pressed, using a well-timed mind blast to force one brute to go skidding backward, earning him enough distance to send a fireball his way.

“We will not leave until you get what you want, father!” Anders argued, crushing the last standing Qunari in his sights with a crushing prison, then turning to face the older mage, “And if we all die on the way, then so be it!”

This again. Fenris felt like he was going to tear out his hair. This was no time to be arguing, but his damned masters just couldn't get their noses out of their own Maker damned mess! He thought he was going to scream when he opened his mouth, but instead, Fenris shouted, “If you do not go willingly, I will knock you out and carry you!”  
Anders looked absolutely betrayed at his slave's words, but Fenris had no time to feel guilty. They were going to die due to Anders' stubbornness, and Fenris wasn't about to go down that easily. If they lived by running like cowards, then so be it.

He was just about to advance towards Anders to fulfill his promise when the Qunari soldiers began to shout at each other. The three of them turned to see the brutes, calling out to one another one word, over and over, and then promptly turn tail and run. It was unexplainable. Even those in the middle of fighting, those who were about to win, abandoned their conquests and ran for the jungle.

“What's happening?” Anders asked first, his eyes dull and brown again, the hand on his staff clenched.

“They are retreating...” Fenris guessed, shaking his head slowly, “That must be what they're shouting...”

“No. I heard that word before.” Danarius mumbled, his brow furrowed deeply, though he couldn't quite put his finger on the meaning.

“Does it matter anymore? They are leaving. We won!” Anders cheered, taking a few steps forward and shouting from cupped hands, “That's right, run you brutish bastards! We kicked your ass today and we'll kick it again!”

“Gaatlok...” Fenris repeated their word, unable to make anything of it. Shouting and cheering came from the boats at the docks, the soldiers thinking the same as they watched the enemy retreat. Whistling was heard in the distance.

“Say that again,” Danarius said to Fenris, who turned towards his master with a frown.

“Gaatlok,” Fenris answered, keeping his eyes down-turned. More cheering from the boats. More taunts from Anders. More whistling.

The boat that had been untied and was already yards out in the sea exploded in flame and smoke, errant pieces of wood spraying outwards in a shower of debris. The men on the boat still docked began to yell and scream, and Fenris watched with wide eyes as a black cloud of thickly packed pellets rained down on the ship, followed soon after by a flaming arrow.

The arrow fell slowly. The flame dancing erratically in the breeze, clinging on desperately as the wind tried to snuff it out. It fell like a falling star, sparkling in the night sky, beautiful and distracting.

But the moment the flame touched the docked ship, it, too, exploded outward in a spray of wood, limbs, and fire.

Fenris grabbed Danarius and threw to the ground behind him, shielding the man with his own body. Anders shouted and dropped to his own knees, covering his eyes from the suddenness of the explosion.

The debris looked small in the distance, but it carried through the air fast, and when the first jagged plank sunk into the sand beside them like a throwing knife at nearly the size of Anders' arm span, he panicked.

“Fenris!” He shouted, catching his slave's eye as Danarius cowered underneath him. It would be useless if Fenris were struck, the wood could easily pierce the unarmored elf and kill the both of them.

Macabre thoughts aside, the elf was reaching towards Anders, as if he could pull the mage under him as well and protect him. With his eyes on Anders, he didn't see the large, spinning hunk of wood headed straight for them, didn't think to duck or move out of the way.

“Fenris!” Anders shouted again, crawling forward and throwing out with his magic just in time to create a substantial shield around them. The wood struck the shield, making Fenris and Danarius flinch in terror, but it bounced off in a lovely arch, no longer a danger to them. It slowed in its downfall, but still fast enough to evade Anders as he attempted to cast a shield over himself as well, thus striking him hard on the side of his head.

“Anders!” Fenris cried out just as the mage slumped to the ground, blood spilling from his hairline and into the sand. Fenris moved to stand up, to run to his master and rouse him to make sure he was alive, but Danarius clung to the elf instead, tight and possessive around his waist.

“No! You will not leave me defenseless!” He demanded, even as Fenris struggled.

“I need to save him! I need to make sure he's okay!” Fenris argued, digging his nails into the sand as he tried to claw his way from Danarius' arms.

“If you go, you will die!” Danarius called, even as Fenris broke away from his arms and scrambled across the beach to Anders' side. Danarius followed soon after, too scared to be out in the open even after the last of the debris fell a ways away from them. Fenris cared not for the danger as he pulled the bleeding mage into his lap, shaking his shoulders and tapping his cheek. Danarius ducked down beside them, casting another barrier around them just in case.

Anders groaned and slowly woke up, his eyes hazy and unfocused and his head throbbing. Fenris cried out in relief, holding his master tight to his chest and burying his face in his shoulder, uncaring of the blood still dripping down his face.

“Master... Anders.... Oh...” Fenris huffed, pulling away enough to take Anders' hand and bring it to his head, “Heal yourself, Master...”

The mage was slow to obey, but when the gentle green glow of healing magic filled his palm, both he and Fenris let out a breath of relief. Danarius shifted awkwardly beside them, looking up when the thundering of feet caught his attention.

Soldiers had escaped the boats in time, it seemed, and were now running away from the docks, even though two more boats still sat in the water, ready to be released. Danarius thought them smart. Of course, the Qunari would target the last remaining ships to ensure their prey did not escape.

When the black, sooty pellets began to drift onto the beach like snow, Danarius felt his stomach churn.

“We need to go.” Danarius declared, getting to his feet. Fenris quickly followed though he took his time getting Anders to his feet. When the mage swayed, Fenris quickly wrapped Anders' arm around his shoulders and started forward. Danarius moved faster, so he lead the way. He thought about running, but if he were caught alone in the jungle, that would only be worse for him.

“What is this stuff?” Anders asked, holding out a hand to catch a few of the falling flakes. Fenris eyed the stuff warily, flinching away when one pellet fell onto his nose.  
“Gaatlok.” Danarius answered briefly, “An explosive the Qunari crafted.”

“Is it magic?” Fenris asked, turning when he heard a symphony of whistling.

Danarius turned as well, his heart falling into his stomach. From the trees of the jungle behind them, a shower of flaming arrows came, zipping through the air in synchrony. It was too late for them, standing just at the edge of where the Gaatlok fell. They would be killed by the blast.

“Anders!” Fenris gasped, stealing Danarius' attention from their inevitable doom. He watched as his son stepped forward, his entire body—even his clothes—cracked with the Fade. He raised his arms up, the focus stone in his staff glowing powerfully, and just as the arrows hit the sand, just as the Gaatlok erupted into fire, smoke, and death, Anders pulled forth all of the mana and strength from within, erecting an equally strong and powerful shield around them.

The flames engulfed them mercilessly, the heat tangible even within the cocoon of safety. Fenris watched as the smoke curled around them in a dome, trying but failing to penetrate the pulsing barrier around them. Danarius watched his son in awe, his body lit with the Fade as he channeled it expertly. Perhaps even with Anders still alive in his own head, this experiment wasn't for naught.

And then the shower of debris came.

The first hunk of wood, half of a wall of a cabin, zipped right by them, creating a terrifying vortex of wind and noise in its wake, disturbing the smoke more than it disturbed them. And then a sword was deflected off the shield, though it left a visible crack in its shape. Anders wavered, the demand of mana unyielding. The next item to hit his barrier, a tower shield, created another weak spot, the cracks growing dangerously quickly.

A knife pierced the barrier first, tearing through Anders' wrist and slashing Danarius' arm. The younger mage shouted in pain, his body hunching over and the barrier falling. The smoke around them immediately consumed them, but Fenris ran to Anders' aide and pulled him behind him.

“Master!” Fenris cried, but Anders was already healing his wrist, gagging as he watched the tendons and muscles bloom into existence like a macabre flower, reconnecting messily. More debris flew by them, and Anders struggled to bring up another barrier, but he was all but tapped out.

Fenris covered Anders' hands with his own and opened his mouth to say something else, to reassure Anders that the attacks were over maybe or to tell him to rest, but then a second explosion sounded and more flames came rushing forth. Fenris cried out in pain, the fire digging into his clothes, his back, his hair, and his lyrium lines lit up. Anders grabbed at the mana, at the elf, and brought up another shield just in time for all three of them to be knocked back by the shock wave.

Danarius was thrown hard against a nearby tree, slipping to the ground unconscious. Anders was thrown further into the jungle, collapsing under the weight of his own exhaustion. Fenris was merely thrown to the ground, his back singing in pain and the smell of burnt cotton, hair, and skin filling his nose. He crawled forward anyways, reaching Danarius first.

Pulling the Magister underneath him, Fenris looked up to find a thick, white fog filling the jungle. It surrounded Anders in its thick, soupy consistency as if nature itself was responding to the Qunari's attacks. He heard Anders groan, could see him shift about, so he called out to him, hoping the mage would be alert enough to crawl his way.  
What he didn't expect was more voices, nor the figures that appeared from the fog. Their skin and clothes were painted a messy white, blending them in near perfectly with the rolling fog.

“ _Teth a_!” A whisper came, and the figures surrounded Anders, looking down at his squirming form.

“ _Ebasit._ ” Another whisper from another voice and Fenris watched as they grabbed Anders, his eyes widening as they began to drag him away.

“Anders!” Fenris shouted in a panic, scrambling to his feet to chase after the kidnappers. They dragged his master away quickly, their bodies fading into the mist, but Fenris was determined to give chase. They would not have him. Fenris would not allow it.

A gurgling groan from behind made the elf freeze, three long steps into the fog. Turning, Fenris looked down at the prone form of Danarius, lying prone and vulnerable, fitfully rising from his unconsciousness. The call for a retreat still rang in the distance, the sound of battle long gone. Danarius had to get to the ships before they all left...  
Turning back towards the jungle, Fenris felt himself torn right down the middle. Anders was in danger, and it was his duty to protect him... but Danarius, unconscious and weak, needed his protection as well. He stalked back towards Danarius, stopped, then turned and marched further into the jungle, only to stop again. Growling, tearing at his hair, Fenris struggled to decide.

Anders was a big boy. He could take care of himself. Fenris cursed under his breath. Danarius was older and more practiced with his magic. He should be able to make it to the ships when he awakes... if he awoke in time. Those men painted white could be murdering Anders right now, and if Fenris didn't go now, he could be long gone before he could get to him.

Another pained groan from behind him and Fenris cursed loudly in a watery voice. Fenris was nothing without his master and no matter the fact that Anders legally owned him... Danarius was who he answered to in the end. He loved Anders, truly, but...

He loved his master more.

Turning his back on the jungle one last time, Fenris summoned the remainder of his strength and hoisted Danarius into his arms. He ran as best as he could through the heavy, scorched sand, ignoring the way they dug into his feet like tiny knives, overheated from the blasts and sharpened like needles. The beach was still shrouded in smoke and soot, but the docks glowed like a beacon in the distance, lanterns and mage lights guiding his way.

He made it to the docks just as the last ship finished boarding. He called out to the men pulling up the ramp, their eyes locking not on him, but on the Magister in his arms.  
Lowering the ramp one last time, they allowed Fenris on board, Danarius held tightly in his arms. They were quickly ushered to the side, and Fenris laid Danarius down as gently as he could, letting the man's head rest in his lap and his hands wipe away the blood and ash that covered his skin.

The ship began to sail, making it half a mile from the beach when Danarius awoke.

“Master,” Fenris said, knowing he would have to own up to the loss before Danarius could question him before it could be any worse, “My Prince... My Master...” He sobbed, shame and grief and failure overwhelming, even as Danarius stared up at him, waiting for the slave to get his words together.

“He was taken...”

Danarius' eyes widened, and in a motion much too quick, he sat upright, pausing only to hold his throbbing head. “You lost Anders?!” He demanded, voice loud, breaking up the silence over the ship. Others discretely looked their way, watched in only vague interest as the slave cried at his Master's anger.

“I had to get you to the ships!” Fenris raced to explain himself, hoping that Danarius would understand, would forgive him, would hold him close and praise him still, “They were leaving and I-I couldn't leave you! Couldn't leave you hurt! I had to get you to safety!”

Danarius grit his teeth, his anger unabating, and he questioned the slave, “Then why are you still here?”

Sniffling, Fenris hunched his shoulders and merely squawked out, “Wh-what?”

“You made certain the ship received me. You brought me to safety. Why did you not immediately go to collect Anders right after?!” Danarius pressed, getting to his feet with the aid of the ship's railing. Fenris hunched in on himself even more, tears rolling hot down his cheeks.

“I... I...” Fenris had no answer. Had no way to tell Danarius that he'd rather have him than risk death, risk running after Anders only for it all to be for naught. In response, Danarius grabbed Fenris by the hair, yanking the slave to his feet despite the sudden shouts of displeasure from the spectators. Fenris cried out, grasping Danarius' hand to try and lessen the pain. His feet scraped against the wood of the deck as Danarius dragged him towards the front of the ship.

“You have failed me, slave,” Danarius scowled, shoving Fenris against the rails, making his back bend painfully as he left go of his hair and grabbed him by the neck instead.

“You have failed the one task I gave you, the only thing you were created to do.”

“Master—Please—!” Fenris choked, looking into Danarius' enraged face, his curled lip, his burning grey eyes. He was a fool. How could he have turned on Anders for this? How could he still be here, with a hand on his throat and his life in his hands, and still think he had made the right decision in the end?

“Serrah, think about what you're doing!” Someone called from behind them. But Danarius and Fenris were staring at each other, enveloped in each other. This was Fenris' punishment.

“You will go and right your wrongs,” Danarius declared. Fenris trembled in his grasp, gasping in fear, “Or you will hang.”

Fenris' was then shoved backward, his shoulder striking the side of the ship before the rest of him crashed into the surface of the ocean, the cold water dragging him under for a long, painful minute. He thought as his lungs burned that he might not resurface. In the end, he knew his soul would not rest if he were to fail his master a second time.  
Kicking his feet against the cold ocean water was hard, but he managed to break the surface of the water just in time to hear shouting come from the ship deck. Fenris hesitated, bobbing there in the waves. He was worried for Danarius, afraid that the others on board might try to exact an unwanted vengeance. The only thing that kept him from calling out to his master was the fact that the man had already given him his task.

Keeping himself afloat was hard, but swimming back to the shore was harder. Not only were the waves pushing and pulling him like a piece of flotsam, but his shoulder ached and his back stung from the salt water submerging his burned skin. The shore was so far away, and many times on his way, Fenris wondered if he was going to die in the water, unable to make it so far as the beach. Shame at his inaction pulled him under the waves just as the water did, but still he trudged forward, clawing through the waves as if he could beat the current into submission.

The first touch of sand against his toes was a miracle. Each struggling step afterward a blessing. He collapsed on the dry sand with a cry, his stomach and chest expanding and deflating with each desperate breath. The nights were warm in Seheron, and Fenris couldn't be more grateful for it as he laid sopping wet on the beach with a cold spray of water keeping him conscious in rhythmic intervals. Fenris stared up at the stars, so familiar even on this foreign land, winking at him tauntingly. Around him, Fenris could hear the waves, his own breath, and the sounds of the remaining soldiers too injured or slow to make it to the boats in time. They were all dying around him, some bleeding out, others burned from the gaatlok.

Fenris closed his eyes, allowing himself a moment of rest. He would have to go after Anders eventually, but for now, he would lay here and contemplate his task. He would need a weapon. His blade should be somewhere amongst the wreckage. He would need provisions. The trees bore fruit as hard as rocks and nearly impossible to open without spilling the liquid inside. The fish was aplenty in the ocean, but Fenris did not know how to catch them. Anything stored will be all but burned away at this point.  
He could live for a time without food. Fenris will just have to be quick to find Anders. If worse came to worse... well, Fenris wasn't going to contemplate cannibalism until he really became delirious from hunger.

And getting home? The only remaining boat had just left, and Fenris had been thrown off of it. Perhaps Danarius will return for them, though Fenris wasn't sure if he could come quick enough. It took half a week to sail from Qarinus to Seheron. Assuming Fenris found Anders quickly, they would still have to wait four more days for Danarius to show, and that's if he left Qarinus immediately after arriving.

Deciding that he will just have to worry about that when the time came, Fenris set about the first step. He pushed himself up from the beach, peeked out to the retreating ship that could have been taking him home, then began to walk along the shore in search of a blade and armor. It took the better part of the night to gather together an outfit suitable. He was pleased to find the breastplate and spiked pauldrons of the armor Danarius commissioned him, but the helmet had been blown through and the clawed gauntlets he adored, while still in one piece, lost the leather strap that held it to his wrist.

He improvised with a belt around one wrist and a cloth sash around the other. The metal creaked when he bent his fingers, sand no doubt having gotten into the joints, but he had suffered worse. Adorning the breastplate, Fenris allowed himself a moment to brush his fingers along the Arvanitis heraldry impressed upon the metal. It was slightly misshapen but was still pleasantly visible, and seeing it eased Fenris bruised heart.

The pauldrons, on the other hand, merely made Fenris feel more protected, though the spikes were more for design than anything else.

With the sun slowly rising over the horizon, Fenris continued his search for a blade not too damaged by the attack. Most swords he came across were too badly cracked or chipped for him to put his faith in, however, and for a long moment, Fenris considered just marching into the jungle and relying on his stealth to guide him. The more he walked and heard his armor shuffle and jangle, the less confident he felt about that plan.

He walked closer to the jungle regardless, finding the smaller weapons had flown much farther from the blasts, and may be less damaged by the fire or debris. That's where he came across Anders' staff, snapped in half and charred black, though the focus stone still glittered prettily.

And, a short distance away, the great sword Danarius himself had gifted him with.

Fenris nearly wept when he found it in good condition, the leather grip singed, but unbroken, and the blade only scratched and sandy. The elf held it in his hands, pressed a kiss to the face of the blade, and thanked the Maker for small blessings.  
Armed and dressed, Fenris looked into the jungle, silently promising that he will bring Anders home in one piece, no matter how long it takes him. If he had to hunt down those

damned Qunari and kill each one of them just to find his master, he will without hesitation, Maker willing.

Fenris took a step forward, then froze. His hand on the blade tightened, his heart racing. Deep in the jungle, where the thick leaves and vines were blotting out the light, Fenris could see something staring back at him, eyes glowing green in the morning sun. Unblinking. Waiting. Fenris hefted his sword a little higher, hoping to scare whatever it was off. The thing—creature—whatever it may be flinched backward, paused, then started forward.

“ _Ataas.._.” A young, timid voice called out, and Fenris squinted at the figure as it drew nearer. It was small, lithe, definitely not a Qunari, and Fenris soon reeled back when he found himself face-to-face with another elf, a young boy for that matter, his body covered in black soot and a wooden bow in his hands. He looked curious as he drew closer to Fenris, his eyes roaming the slave studiously, “ _Viddathari ost_?”

Fenris squinted at the elf, unsure what was being said to him, so he merely shook his head in confusion. The elf tightened his grip on the bow, regarded Fenris silently for a moment longer, then said in Trade, “You are Tevinter... aren't you?”

Fenris took a step back even as the elf continued closer, not liking how little space there was between them. Seeing his discomfort, the other elf stopped advancing, but his eyes were trained on Fenris like a hawk. The slave trembled under his gaze, and he ducked his head, more so due to instinct than the desire to submit. The elf hummed at the action, lowering his bow slowly.

“A slave, then.” He guessed, though there wasn't a touch of judgment or revelry over that fact. In fact, and Fenris had to peer up at the elf's face to be sure, he sounded horrified by the discovery. Sickened, even. Haunted.

“Have you lost your masters too?” Fenris asked, his eyes widening and his sword dipping. The elf grimaced, holding his bow to his chest, then firmly shook his head no.

“I am no slave. Not any longer,” The elf told Fenris, and he smiled when Fenris responded with a shocked gasp, “I have been saved by the Qun.”

“The Qun?” Fenris asked, and this time when the elf drew near, Fenris let him without retreating. The elf smiled reassuringly at Fenris, then gestured for them to sit.

“I will tell you all about it,” He promised him, lowering himself until he was cross-legged in the sand. Fenris squeezed the handle of his sword, then followed suit, resting the length of his blade across his thighs.

“The Qun is a following. A way of life. A philosophy. According to the Qun, everyone and everything in this world has a purpose from the moment they come into existence. From farmers to warriors to priestesses and leaders.” The elf preached, his eyes all but glittering in awe at his very own words. Fenris leaned towards it, interested himself, though not in the Qun, but in the way the elf seemed to be enraptured by these beliefs. “Without the Qun, I would have continued on as a slave. I would have never discovered my true potential. And the Qunari helped me realize this.”

Fenris leaned back all too suddenly, his eyes widening, “The Qunari?” He asked, then he cursed when he realized he should have noticed the connection sooner, “You turn your back on the Imperium for the enemy?”

The elf paused at this, his smile fading, and after a moment of deliberation, he asked, “Wouldn't you?”

“No,” Fenris answered right away, but the question still bounced around in his head. It was true he was a slave, and it may be true that there was more for him out there, but Fenris could not even imagine such a life. He loved his masters, truly. He could never think to disobey them, not unless their lives were in danger...

He recalled the white-painted men dragging Anders back into the jungle. Fenris abandoned him to rescue Danarius, and he was tossed from the ship as punishment. If he were not a slave, would it have been different? If he were their equal, would Danarius praise him? Would Anders listen to him and go willingly with them instead of fighting every last step of the way?

Would Fenris instead turn his back on Danarius and follow Anders?

The thought was terrifying for the elf. He felt the need to answer again, more for reassurance than anything, and he emphasized it loudly, “No!”

“Think about it!” The elf pressed, his brows furrowing, “Why should we sacrifice ourselves for men and women who do not care for us? Why must we give up our equality to merely be? Under the Qun, I am who I am meant to be. I am nothing more, nothing less, just like everyone else!”

Suddenly, the elf was standing, holding his bow to his side and extending a hand to Fenris, “I can show you what it's like. The Qunari, they respect warriors. They respect bas who hold their own. Just come with me and I can show you what it's like to be free!”

Fenris leaned back, his eyes wide as he glanced between the elf's face and his hand. A gentle rustling came from the jungles, making both elves glance back. Fenris jerked to his feet, gripping his sword tightly, and stepping out from the trees came three Qunari, each one carrying weapons of their own on their backs.

“ _Viddathari,_ ” One of them grunted while the other two armed themselves, their eyes glued on Fenris. The slave took a few panicked steps back, but he stopped when the Qunari Elf stood between him and the others, his arms held out to his sides.

“ _Kost! Nehraa Qun!_ ” The elf said strongly, and Fenris bit down on his tongue, trembling at the sight of this strange elf standing up to these muscled giants. He trembled harder when all three of them paused and looked to the elf, curiosity in their glinting eyes. None of them responded, and their silence seemed to be reassuring enough for the elf to turn back around to Fenris.

“Come with us, _bas_. Let me show you how the Qun frees us.” The elf asked, reaching out once again for Fenris' hand.

But the slave stood stock-still, his heart pounding as this elf stood before these three beasts, holding them back with his mere presence. The Qunari looked at him, their eyes judging and impatient, but they did not approach, nor did they raise their blades.

Taking a nervous step back, Fenris looked back at the elf and replied meekly, “I... I need to find my master...”

“Your master is dead.” The elf replied without missing a beat.

“You don't know that,” Fenris argued, and this time the elf smirked at him, his eyes full of pity. He stepped forward but paused when Fenris once again stepped away.

“What makes you think your master still lives?” The elf asked, holding out his arms, one palm open, the other still gripping his bow.

“He was alive when I saw him last,” Fenris answered quickly, frowning, “Then the fog came, the white-painted men dragged him away...”

“The Fog Warriors,” The elf scowled, and the three Qunari glanced at one another before the one in the center pulled a horn from his belt, carved hollow with a hole at the tip. As he blew into the crudely made instrument, the elf asked Fenris, “How long ago did they take your master?”

“I... am uncertain...” Fenris replied anxiously, flinching when the Qunari blew the horn a second time. “Who are the Fog Warriors?”

Distantly, another horn was blown. The elf grimaced and pulled an arrow from the quiver at his hip.

“They are native to this land, heathens who have taken the Qun and bastardized it. They are allies to no one and kill both Qunari and Tevinter _bas_.” The elf responded, nocking the arrow in his bow, then aiming it right at Fenris, “Submit yourself to the Qun and we will help you find the corpse of your master. Refuse and embrace your fate.”

Startled, Fenris blurted out, “You kill those that do not follow your ways?”

“The Qunari do not believe in wasted potential. We will re-educate you, encourage you to embrace the Qun.” The elf explained, his eyes hard. More Qunari appeared from the jungle, passing conversation with the other gargantuan beasts in their growling language. Fenris hefted his blade, and the elf's brows rose in surprise.

“I refuse to go.” Fenris stated firmly, “I must find my master and return him home.”

“It's fruitless! If you go without aid, you will perish.” The elf warned, pulling the arrow back against the bowstring tightly. Fenris tensed, a snarl pulling at his lips.

“Then I shall fall with my blade in hand.” Fenris decided, and with a look of resignation, the elf loosed his arrow.

Only for Fenris to activate his brands and allow the projectile to zip right through him, shuddering as he felt it pass through his thigh. When the arrow sank into the sand behind him, Fenris darted forward, boosted in speed by the Fade and only reentering the waking world in order to bring his sword down on the elf.

Said elf cried out in fear, barreling backward and hitting the sand hard, but he was not alone here, and one of the Qunari quickly parried Fenris' swing with his own blade. The clash of metal reverberated through the air, through Fenris' arm, throwing the slave off-balance, and he staggered backward to try and keep on his feet.

The Qunari charged forward now, no longer held back by the less-than-pure intentions of the elf. They charged at Fenris, forcing him on the defense as they swung their blades mercilessly. Fenris struggled to keep up, parrying and dodging and trying to push back whenever there was a pause in their steps, but in the end, it was six against one, though the elf remained on the sand, watching Fenris battle for his life with a look of contempt.

Fenris was outright lucky when he managed to cut down one of the Qunari, catching the beast in the stomach and tearing it open with his blade, watching in delight as he dropped like a fly, innards and blood spilling out of him. He thought for a moment that his brothers-in-arms would pause, regard their fallen comrade in grief or disappointment or anything, but the Qunari did nothing of the sort. They said no words, made no move to pause, and barely even glanced his way as they stepped over his body to fill in the gap he left. Shocked by their lack of emotion, Fenris was caught off guard, allowing the Qunari to get a hit in.

Fenris shouted at the sharp slide of the blade into the skin of his unguarded arm, blood clinging to the metal as it drew away. Fenris managed to block two more swings, then yelled when his thigh was cut, twisting away from the sting and wincing as hot blood stained his leggings.

Staggering out of the way of another blow, Fenris tried to run, hoping he would be small enough to slip past the beasts, but the Qunari caught him around the waist and threw him back into the middle of the fight, tossing the slave onto his back. Effectively winded, Fenris had no choice but to curl up and try to protect his head and stomach as the Qunari tried to kick him onto his feet. He wondered why none of them went for the killing blow, but he figured they were like the Magisters, in the end, desiring bloodshed and violence than victory.

One Qunari grabbed him by the arm, hefting him up to his feet, but Fenris immediately crumpled back down, his thigh throbbing from the fall and more blood gushing.

“ _Basra_ ,” One of them growled, “ _Vashedan_. Fight!”

Fenris peeked up at the word spoken in Trade but was immediately met with another rough kick, this time to his head. Fenris yelped, his vision spinning and fading into black, but he blinked the temporary blindness away. He attempted to crawl, his thigh burning with each twitch of the muscle, but the Qunari grabbed him again and threw him onto his back.

The elf that had sat by and watched finally stood from the stand, speaking up and calling out, “ _Parshaara!_ ”

But this time around, the Qunari seemed unsatisfied with listening to the elf. They continued to jostle and to kick, and the elf had to shove and elbow his way into the fray, using his body to defend Fenris and ward off further attacks. Irritated, one of the Qunari merely growled, “ _Maraas imekarost_.”

“Please...” The elf begged in Trade, and the Qunari all slowly looked to one of their own, their leader, it seemed. He regarded the elf quietly, considerately, then eyed Fenris for a long moment before grunting.

“Stand, _bas._ We will take you to the _Ben-Hassrath_. It is up to your will if you want to survive.” The leader decided, reaching down and grabbing Fenris once more by the arm, though he didn't let go until the slave was set on his feet. The Qunari took his sword from him, tied his wrists together with a thick vine, then promptly turned to the jungle, only to pause.

A fog was rolling in through the trees. The Qunari looked at one another, and Fenris would have snorted if he wasn't growing light-headed from the blood loss. These creatures watched one of their own fall just moments before without batting an eye, but the sight of a thick white fog had them shaking in their boots? It was unbelievable.

The leader barked an order in their language, one hand firm on the back of Fenris' neck. The Qunari nervously began to shuffle towards the mist, keeping their mouths shut and any opinions kept private. Fenris felt his legs shake already, his thigh no longer stinging but burning. He pressed a hand to the gash, hoping to stem the flow just a bit, but he could feel it open and close with each step.

They walked through the fog for twenty minutes, perhaps, before Fenris dropped to a knee, panting and trying to settle his spinning head.

“He's lost too much blood,” The elf noted, a hint of worry in his voice, “He will not survive the trip back to camp.”

“Then he is not worthy.” The Qunari leader said gruffly, stepping around Fenris and peering down at him.

“He handled himself well in battle. He has been gravely injured. How can you say he is not worthy?” The elf argued angrily, making Fenris wince. Had they been in Tevinter, even if the elf was a free man, he would have been struck immediately for speaking in such a tone. In fact, Fenris was surprised that this elf was giving his opinion at all.

But the Qunari leader regarded Fenris a second time, his lips pressed into a hard line. He squeezed his hands into fists, released, then squeezed again before huffing.  
“He is a liability.” The Qunari grunted, turning back to the elf.

“So was I, once.” The elf responded, his voice turning gentle, “But I would not be the elf I am today if it weren't for the Qun—if it weren't for you. Please,” The elf took a step forward, squaring up to the Qunari, but his eyes reading passion, “I know he will be worth it.”

The leader, looking anything but accommodating, gave in with a rough growl and tore a roll of bandages from his pouch. He stepped towards the slave, but Fenris flinched back on instinct.

“Hold still,” The leader demanded, grabbing the elf by the ankle and jerking his leg straight, despite the pained shout it got him. He wrapped the wound tightly, making sure the blood stopped spilling out, then did the same to Fenris' arm before he hefted him up with one hand and tossed him at one of his men. Fenris yelped, scrambling in the air for a moment before he was caught in both arms by another one of the beasts, then promptly tossed over his shoulder to be carried. With his tied wrists, Fenris struggled to find something to grip onto as the Qunari resumed walking, each step jostling the slave painfully until he wrapped his fists around the beast's belt.

Hanging like this with his upper body tilted down, Fenris found the blood was rushing back to his head, allowing him a moment of alertness before it started slipping again, his mind overwhelmed. He was exhausted, physically and emotionally, and though he knew better than to fall asleep in the arms of the enemy, he couldn't help how heavy his eyes became, nor could he fight it when they finally fell shut, sending him into a bumpy, uncomfortable snooze.

He awoke barely fifteen minutes later a thick, meaty fwump, followed by a grunt and the collapse of a body.

“ _Vashedan_!” The elf shouted, and Fenris yelped when he was unceremoniously dumped onto the jungle floor. His back twinged in pain from the impact, and he quickly curled in on himself when the Qunari marching behind the one carrying him began to run around him. The sound of battle echoed against the trees, and when Fenris was certain he wasn't about to be stampeded to death, he began to try and crawl away from the edge of it, hoping he could hide away somewhere until it passed.

The twang of a bow was the only warning Fenris got before an arrow sunk into the meat of his thigh, causing the elf to cry out once more in pain. Turning to see who dared attack an unarmed person, he found the damned Qunari elf glaring at him, already nocking another arrow from his quiver.

And then the white-painted warriors appeared from the trees, leaping down from the low-hanging branches with knives in hand. Three fell onto the elf, knocking him down and tearing him apart, only giving him a moment to cry out before they carved his voice from his throat. It was brutal, bloody, barbaric, and yet Fenris only felt avenged. He would have loved to crawl over there and spit on the crazed elf's corpse, but that would only bring him closer to the fighting, and Fenris was not an idiot.

First thing's first, he gripped the stem of the arrow and broke it in one clean motion, clenching his jaw shut so he didn't cry out so loudly. He didn't need any more attention on him than what he got. With the arrow out of the way, Fenris resumed his mad crawl away from the battle, digging his fingers into the dirt and moss and roots to drag him along.  
He nearly made it out of harm's way when a Fog Warrior appeared before him, squatting down with blades at the ready. Gasping, the slave attempted to push himself away from him, but that only toppled him over, bearing his front to the person. He held out his hands, a silent plea to be left alone, and the Warrior squinted at him quietly.

They met eyes, Fenris trembling and the Warrior stoic. In a quick motion, the Warrior spun one of the knives in his hand, gripping it by the flat side of the blade, then jutting it out, handle-first, to Fenris. The slave eyed the weapon curiously, but he took it nonetheless, holding it in both hands. He looked back up at the Warrior, only for the man to suddenly slice through the vine bonds on his wrists, then grab Fenris by the front of his breastplate and throw him further into the jungle.

Jostled and confused, Fenris pushed the foliage out of the way just in time to see the Warrior get to his feet and run head-first into battle, leaping on the back of one of the Qunari and slicing into his muscle, unrelenting with each cut and stab. Fenris watched in awe as this single warrior, this human took down the Qunari alone, falling to the ground with him as he perished, then darted back into the trees.

There were two Qunari left, one of them Fenris recognized as the leader, and he seemed to be holding his own just fine. In fact, he managed to grab one of the Warriors and snapped her spine over his shoulders, tossing her lifeless body to the ground just in time to shove another one back just as he fell out of the air.

Fenris dug deep within himself, trying to decide what he should do. The Warrior gave him this knife. He freed him, allowing him the chance to fight with them, to defeat this common enemy, or to defend his own life and run with protection. He was wounded already, an arrowhead digging into the muscle of his thigh, his arm and leg compromised from the wounds from before. He would be a liability, just like the Qunari leader had said he would be. He would only be another dead body on the ground before long.

Another Warrior was thrown to the ground by the leader of the Qunari, and Fenris grit his teeth tightly. They would all fall to this one beast, and Fenris would have done nothing but sit by and watch. He may not be stupid, but he was not selfish either. The Warrior gave him a knife. He planned to use it.

First, he used the knife to dig out the arrowhead, groaning in pain as he worked the blade back and forth until the metal bit slid out. Next, he used the knife to tear a strip from his leggings and tie it tightly around the wound. Lastly, he took the knife in his hands, hoisted himself onto his feet, and when the third Warrior was ripped from the Qunari leader's back and thrown against a tree trunk, Fenris charged.

Letting out a cry to invigorate himself, Fenris ran straight for the beast, knife held up in preparation to slash down. The Qunari braced himself, hands already held out to grab the slave and throw him aside just like he had done the others, but Fenris knew better than to follow their lead. Instead of leaping onto the beast to try and gain the upper hand, Fenris dove down, tumbling between the Qunari's legs. He felt the tips of the beast's fingers graze him, but he hadn't been expecting Fenris to go beneath him.

Using his spot on the floor, Fenris efficiently sunk the blade into the Qunari's flank, growling as he used what remaining strength he had to tear the knife upwards, ripping it from his calf in a bloody arc. The Qunari howled in pain, his head twisting back before he fell to his knee. Fenris shoved himself backward just as the Qunari swung blindly behind him, trying to take the elf out, but his arm merely swept through the air.

Fenris threw himself forward, blade-first, and he shoved the tip into the Qunari's back, shuddering when he felt it scrape between bone. Another horrifying shout came from the leader, and with a twist and a pop, the beast was falling forward, the knife slipping from his spine covered in blood.

Fenris was panting, his eyes wide as he watched the beast die. His eyes still flickered around in a panic, his breath fluttering, more and more blood pooling from his back. His fingers twitched, then his lips. He grunted, a wet, gurgling sound and his eyes locked onto Fenris with a vengeance. The elf flinched back, his own heart racing. Why wasn't he dead? How could he still be stubbornly clinging to the Waking world?

More grunts, then a shuddering breath, and the Qunari all but spat out a single word, his lips curling in contempt.

“ _Basalit-an._ ”

He coughed once, blood spraying from his lips, and slowly, the breath finally left him, though his eyes remained sharp and focused solely on Fenris, the very last person he would see before he rested in the Fade.

Behind him, the sound of another body hitting the ground snapped Fenris out of his reverie. He looked around, suddenly startled, and found himself sitting amongst five Fog Warriors, all painted white from head to toe. Two lie dead on the ground, though the least wounded Warriors were already gathering them up and preparing them for the journey back to their camp. They didn't look at Fenris, didn't offer him a hand or try to attack him, and the elf wondered what was left for him now.

He didn't doubt that the Qunari elf had been right before, what with Fenris not being able to survive in the jungle without aid. His sword had been left on the beach when the Qunari captured him, and while he now had a knife gifted to him by the Fog Warriors, he didn't think it would be enough to ward of Qunari and Seheron creatures alike. He had only just cut down one Qunari with the thing, and that was a fluke, he believed. He merely caught him by surprise, really. These Fog Warriors not only saved Fenris from what the leader called the Ben-Hassrath, but they took down these six Qunari with only seven people. It took the Tevinter army seven people to fight one of these hulking beasts, much less bring them down.

Fenris slowly tried to push himself to his feet, wondering if these Fog Warriors spoke Trade, but a sudden hand on his shoulder kept him seated. Looking up, Fenris found the Warrior who had given him his knife standing over him, his hand firm and his eyes hard. He regarded Fenris for a long, tense moment, just like before, then silently held out his free hand, eyeing the knife Fenris still held.

Ah, so it was not a gift in the end. It was merely loaned to him. Fenris sucked in a sharp breath, wondering if it would be a good idea to try and keep the knife from this man, but eventually figured he wouldn't survive another confrontation. With less flare than this man had displayed, Fenris turned the knife around so he grasped it by the flat end of the blade, then held it up to the Warrior, handle-first.

The edges of the Warrior's eyes crinkled in what could have been amusement if his lips weren't set in a perpetual scowl. Fenris hesitated, then quickly connected the dots. The blade was still drenched in Qunari blood, he hadn't even thought to clean it before returning it. Muttering out a quick apology, the elf fumbled with the blade and quickly wiped it clean with the bottom of his tunic, sticking out haphazardly from his breastplate. His tunic was now stained, but the blade sparkled cleanly, and once again, he held it out to the Warrior.

This time when his eyes crinkled, it was followed by a brief sniff through the nose, and the Warrior reached down. He bypassed the knife completely, though, and instead grabbed Fenris by the arm, hoisting him up and to his feet. Fenris blinked at him, surprised, and the Warrior gently patted Fenris' blade-holding hand, pushing it against the slave's chest before he let go of him and turned away.

So maybe it was a gift after all.

Fenris thought he should thank this man, show him how much he truly appreciated his gift and his aide with the Qunari, but when he took a step forward, both of his legs gave out and he found himself falling fast to the ground with a grunt. He heard a few breathy gasps, followed by airy huffs that could have been laughter or disdain, and suddenly hands were all over him, turning him onto his back and tucking his arms in against his chest.

Whispers were heard above him, and though his vision swam, he could see the Warriors leaning over his prone form, speaking to one another in hushed voices. Finally, they seemed to come to some sort of agreement, and like the corpses and the heavily wounded, Fenris was dragged through the jungle and deeper into the mist.

He finally fell unconscious just as the sun began to peek through the branches and leaves.

 


	6. Fog Warriors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris learns about the Qun.
> 
> warning: Quite a bit of death. Some inferred torture.

When he came to, he found himself lying on something thin, but comfortable, the padding beneath him making the ground much more bearable to rest on. There was gentle murmuring on the other side of him, the rustle of cloth and a patter of coughs. Fenris closed his eyes again, enjoying the gentle but wet breeze through the jungle, the way the light glittered red behind his eyelids, and the smell of something meaty cooking in the distance.

Then hands were on his shoulder and Fenris jerked out of his peace, startling upright and earning a surprised but soft gasp from the intruder. Fenris locked eyes with a woman, her eyes soft and amazed, but what drew Fenris' attention were the curling black horns atop her head amidst a braid of silver hair and the dark grey skin that glittered in the heat. She was large, just like the Qunari men, but she still had a womanly figure about her, curves beneath the muscles that added to her exotic beauty.

“Who--” Fenris began to ask, but the lady Qunari hushed him with a gentle voice, gesturing with her hands to keep his voice down.

“You are alright, _Basalit-an_ , but we must keep quiet,” She whispered, her voice surprisingly light and feathery in contrast to her strong, commanding form. Fenris blinked dumbly at her, struggling for a moment to match her face with that soft voice, but eventually put it aside and shook his head.

“Who are you?” Fenris whispered this time, hunching forward so that she could hear him, though it seemed she had no real trouble with it, “Where am I?”

“I am Rasera. I am a medic here. You are in the medical ward in the Fog Warrior's encampment.” She explained gently, putting her hands in her lap as she sat with Fenris, her legs tucked beneath her, “I was just about to change your bandages. Can I?”

Fenris gulped, admittedly a little intimidated by being near a Qunari, though he was surprised that it was a woman. He really shouldn't be, Fenris figured, it's just that he hadn't seen any Qunari women in battle...

Handing over his arm first, he allowed Rasera to begin unwinding the bandages around his arm, checking the cut there, dabbing at it with cream that smelled floral and minty, then rewrapped it with practiced skill. She then grabbed one leg, the one the Qunari had cut into, and began the same process, though she took her time addressing this wound.

Watching her as she worked, Fenris wondered what she was doing here. The Qunari elf had told him the Fog Warriors were enemies to both the Tevinter army and the Qunari. He had never fought them before, but he was sure the elf wasn't exactly lying. With the way the Fog Warriors seemed to just appear, Fenris wondered if it was an impossible task to attempt to seek them out. Perhaps they came and took down whatever battalion nearest to protect themselves.

Still, it would be hard to hide a Qunari in the midst of their group, wouldn't it? Why keep one around if she was obviously part of the enemy?

His curiosity came out in a blunt question, “I thought the Qunari were enemies to the Fog Warriors...”

Rasera looked at him in surprise once again, then offered him a slight smile before she resumed dressing his leg. Gently, she said, “They are... sort of. The Fog Warriors are native to this land, a mix of human and elf. They joined when the war started to drive off the intruders, both Qunari and Tevinter. But wherever the Qunari goes, the _Tal-Vashoth_ follow.”

“Tal-Vashoth?” Fenris asked, his eyes trained on her hands as she finished off that bandage, then proceeded to his next leg, unwrapping that one with much more care. Rasera nodded, her focus unhindered even as they spoke.

“The Qunari would say that the Tal-Vashoth are those who have turned their back on the Qun, but in truth, it is they who have turned their backs. We Tal-Vashoth have read the writings of _Ashkaari_ Koslun and have understood his true meaning in the world.” Rasera recited sagely, frowning at the hint of infection in the last of Fenris' wounds. She pushed down on the meat of his leg, making the elf wince, and she smiled reassuringly at him.

“Breathe, _Basalit-an;_ you are in good hands.” She urged him, wiping clean the wound with a wet cloth before smothering that wound in salve, making sure not to leave any one spot unattended to.

“What does that mean? Basalit-an?” Fenris asked, catching her attention once again, though her eyes stayed trained on his thigh, “The Qunari I killed called me that before he passed.”

Rasera cast him an impressed gaze, then smiled secretively as she finished dressing his wound. Once that bandage was done, she answered lightly, “It means you are no longer _bas._ The Qunari find you worthy of respect.”

“Bas... they called me that, too, before. The Qunari elf especially...” Fenris mumbled, “Is it an insult?”

“No more than calling the Qunari elf as such.” Rasera replied, setting Fenris' leg on the ground beside her thighs, “Rest now, Basalit-an. You have a lot of healing to do.”

Fenris frowned as Rasera stood and moved on to her next patient. Fenris wanted to know more, to know for certain what _bas_ meant, but he knew he could not keep her from her work. A quick glance around at the open area amongst thick trees and foliage told him how many wounded and ill she was looking after, and Fenris found himself impressed that she handled it all on her own, or so it seemed.

Slowly, he reclined back onto the padded bedding, laying stiffly on his back as he contemplated the sky through the leaves, and he rested.

Rasera kept him in the healing ward for a week. Twice a day she came to his side, once in the morning, once at night. She checked his wounds, changed the bandages, made sure he had food and water, and spoke to him. The more they discussed, like what she was applying to him, why she's a Tal-Vashoth, and why she was aiding the Fog Warriors, the more bits and pieces of her language Fenris learned. _Bas_ meant non-Qunari, essentially. _Vashedan_ was some sort of curse word that she uttered when she dropped a clean roll of bandages. _Viddathari_ was a non-Qunari convert to the Qun, like the elf that had tried to convert Fenris.

The more Fenris learned, the more he tried to use these words. When she pressed into the arrow wound too deeply, he hissed out a bitter, “Vashedan!” followed closely by a stream of Arcanum curses. Rasera looked upon him with an all too amused expression, but she didn't dissuade him from it.

When the week was out, Fenris was back on his feet with a healed thigh and arm, thought the arrow wound still needed light tending to. He was no longer bleeding out with every step, however, and that was far better than before. However, Fenris was tense. A whole week had been wasted away with his healing, and he had no clue where Anders was. He tried to ask Rasera about any captives, but she stayed resolutely silent about anything concerning the Fog Warriors. He didn't understand why, they weren't her people, she had no reason to be loyal to them.

Just as he was walking out of the healing ward, Rasera quietly caught up to him and called his title, “Basalit-an!” Fenris turned towards her, then flinched backwards when he realized how impossibly tall she was. The Qunari were always tall, and he's only ever seen her from his position on the ground, but even standing up, he only came up to her chest. He felt like a child compared to her height, but he tried not to let his self-conscious thoughts show.

When Rasera came close enough to be heard without speaking too loudly, she whispered to Fenris, “The jungle has nothing for you, Basalit-an. The Fog Warriors can keep you protected if you fight with them. _Karasten_ said you helped fight the _Karataam_. He told me you were trained.”

Fenris frowned at the new words, though he could easily assume the Karataam were the Qunari who were dragging him off to be converted. Karasten... that could be the name of the man who gave him the knife. Fenris put a hand over the blade handle where it hung from his belt, just to make sure it was still there, but he knew he could not accept.

“I'm sorry...” He replied slowly, looking down at his bare feet, “I... I must find my master.”

Rasera paused, a sharp inhale the only indicator that she heard him, and Fenris wondered if she was going to try to convert him as well. He wondered if there was any real difference after all, between the Qunari and the Tal-Vashoth.

But all Rasera muttered, in the end, is a fact. “You are a slave...” and when Fenris nodded in confirmation, Rasera began to wring her hands together.

“You are a formidable elf, Fenris,” She suddenly said, the first time this entire week that she uttered his true name, and it caught him off guard. He looked up at her, eyes wide, and she merely returned the look with one of trepidation, “Strong in every sense of the word. Smart and tactful. You need no master to survive in this world.”

“It is my duty to protect him. He is the reason for my existence.” Fenris replied evenly, and Rasera only looked more nervous. But finally, she seemed to give in with a sigh, and she dropped her hands to her side, squeezed tightly in fists.

“Then let the Fog Warriors help you find him. And in return, you can help them fight the Qunari.” She offered, meeting his eyes again, pure determination in her purple gaze. “Live amongst them, Basalit-an. Learn how the Qun is meant to be followed.”

Fenris scowled, then, knowing he had been right in the end. Defensively, he muttered, “You wish to convert me.”

But just as quickly as he pointed it out, Rasera responded with a patient, “No. I merely wish to educate.”

They stared at each other, then, Fenris uncertain and Rasera hopeful, but their moment was broken when a loud, howling cry of pain erupted from further in the jungle, making birds of various types scatter to the wind in panicked screeches of their own. Fenris flinched towards the sound, whipping out his knife and, on instinct, stepped in front of Rasera, ready to protect. The howling echoed for a half-minute, then petered out into a wail, then fell silent. Fenris, stiff and confused, turned to Rasera for some sort of explanation. The Tal-Vashoth healer looked uncertain, but eventually gestured for Fenris to follow her.

On silent feet, they crept through the jungle, away from the healing ward and towards what looked like a small, hidden village in the trees. Human-sized nests hung in the branches, wrapped in vine and light woods to create stable homes. Ladders descended from the openings in the sides of the small homes, and Fenris watched with wide-eyes as humans and elves crawled up and down them with ease, running about the small encampment with a purpose, each fulfilling a task or chore. Rasera walked ahead unhindered, but Fenris lagged behind, dancing around the busy bodies and trying to avoid getting in their way. He couldn't count how many people there were living in this jungle village, but there must have been more than thirty.

Fenris staggered backwards when a group of children ran by, snickering under their breaths as they chased a low-flying insect. Fenris watched them go, enraptured by this calm visage, and only snapped out of it when Rasera called out to him again.

“Basalit-an. This way,” She urged, gesturing with a wide sweep of her hand for the slave to follow. Fenris hurried back to her side, though he cast one last fleeting look at the organized chaos that was the Seheron Native society.

They stepped through a few more thick trees and bushes, then finally came into view of a low-set hut made of wood, thick leaves, and held together by ropes of vine. There was smoke curling from a hole in the roof indicating a fire inside, and the door at the front was sealed shut. A Fog Warrior stood by it, blade in hand with the tip burrowed into the ground. He eyes Rasera and Fenris silently, but said nothing of their being there.

Hushed noises came from within the hut, whimpers of pain and muted sobs making Fenris' skin crawl. “What is this place?” He asked, taking a step backwards, as if afraid if he drew near, he would be thrown inside to suffer whatever went on in there.

“Where the Fog Warriors keep their hostages. They interrogate, imprison, torture, and kill here.” Rasera explained gravely, her eyes set solidly on the hut before them just as another terrifying cry tore from within its walls. Fenris flinched back, but Rasera stood her ground.

“There is only one being held this time.” Rasera continued, her eyes narrowing darkly, “ _Saarebas._ ”

Fenris looked up at Rasera, a frown on his face, but he didn't have to ask her what that word meant. She took one fleeting glance at him, then sighed and gestured for Fenris to walk with her. Slowly, they made their way back towards the healing ward, taking their time with each step as opposed to the determined march they had on the way there.

“The world is full of dangerous things, Basalit-an. Conflicting beliefs, misinterpreted intentions, wars, murderers, rapists... but they are all beings of the same standing. No one man, elf, dwarf, or Qunari holds any more power over the other. Not like _Saarebas_ do.” Rasera frowned, looking down at the ground they walked upon. “ _Saarebas_ wield that which should be impossible. They create miracles and feats of nature with a wave of their hand. They can bend the will of those around them with a single drop of blood. They have a foot in the Fade, and they abuse this with every breath they take.”

“Mages,” Fenris stated, stopping his walk at the edge of the town, glad when Rasera stopped only a few steps away from him, “You're talking of mages.”

“I am,” Rasera confirmed, standing tall and sure, “They are dangerous beings, Basalit-an.”

“Not all they do is dangerous. Not every mage is cruel.” Fenris argued, thinking to his master's kind words and touch, his loving gaze and gentle kisses. His master being dragged away into the jungle by white-painted men—by the Fog Warriors.

Rasera made a face at Fenris' words, and with a sigh of resignation, she merely quoted, “The stinger is always a surprise, but so is the bee that simply passes one by.”

Fenris looked at her in confusion, watching as Rasera seemed to consider her very own words before regarding Fenris again. “Forgive me,” She said, suddenly, “I forget not all are familiar with the Qun.”

Fenris shook his head, a silent act of forgiveness, then asked, “Will you tell me what you meant?”

Rasera's eyes seemed to glitter at the plea, and a small smile graced her features before she nodded, “Within the Qun, Ashkaari Koslun describes the danger of mages and magic. He speaks of an Ashkaari who walks through a field, and stops to examine a blossom. As he lingers, a bee comes along and stings him upon the hand. When he turned to the field laborer for aid, he finally noticed the thick gloves and coat she wore. The Ashkaari asks the laborer why they are dressed so in such stifling heat, and the laborer responds, 'To avoid your fate.' The Ashkaari tells the laborer that there are thousands of bees there, but only the one stung him, to which the laborer responds, 'The stinger is always a surprise, but so is the bee that simply passes one by.'”

“I do not understand. What does that have to do with magic?” Fenris asked, shaking his head. Rasera smiled patiently at him.

“What is a mage but a bee in disguise?” She responds carefully, walking forward again with Fenris in tow, “Not all mages may be evil, that I can say is true, but all mages are born with the same power. They are all given the ability to turn on us, to harm us,” She looked at Fenris meaningfully, a frown on her lips, “To enslave us.” Facing forward again, Rasera spoke with a certainty in her voice, one that made Fenris shiver, “If there's one thing the Qunari and the Tal-Vashoth agree on, it's the impact a free mage can have on the normal people. That Saarebas they have in there was found blown away by the gaatlok, injured and hardly conscious. He was brought back to the camp, the Fog Warriors assuming he was some injured _bas_ , but the moment he awoke, he began to cast, and they locked him away properly.”

“A bas mage?” Fenris asked, his brows raising. He had seen the Fog Warriors drag Anders away, he was certain of it. Could it be Anders in that hut now being tortured and interrogated? Could they have him chained up like some common slave? Fenris felt his heart ache at the idea. His master didn't deserve a second of that. He had to get him out of there.

“Can I see him?” Fenris then asked, looking over his shoulder at the receding view of the hut, though it was barely visible amongst all the greenery from such a distance. Rasera paused, Fenris nearly running into her but catching himself just in time, and she looked down at him with wide, calculating eyes.

Hesitantly, Rasera answered, “No... Please do not misunderstand. The Fog Warriors would never let you in. You are an outsider. You have no place in that hut.”

Fenris bit his lip, thinking, then asked, “Then... what if I stayed? With the Fog Warriors? What if I forsake my master and... convert?”

This time, Rasera crossed her arms over her chest, not at all convinced. “You would truly turn your back on your master in a single week? You have learned nothing of the Qun past a few words and a single passage. What makes you want to convert?”

Fenris, grasping at straws, stammered out a meek, “I... I don't...” but before he could lie any further, Rasera was sighing and settling her large, warm hands on his shoulders, shocking him into meeting her eyes. She looked forgiving, with a gentle smile on her lips. She truly was beautiful, Fenris thought distantly.

“I understand what you are attempting to do, Fenris,” She said kindly, squeezing his shoulders in a reassuring gesture, “You cannot save Saarebas. They are cursed from the beginning. He will be questioned, and once the Fog Warriors have their answered, he will be collared and chained, his mouth sewn shut, and killed. This is what the Qun expects of us. We will uphold it.”

Fenris felt his heart freeze over, the thought of Anders going through such pain... Fenris clenched his jaw tightly, figured honesty would work best with Rasera, considering she could already read him like a book. Meeting her eye, he asked her, “And what if he is my master? You said you would help me find him...”

At this, Rasera looked uncomfortable, and she let go of Fenris' shoulders to cross her arms again. Tilting her head to the side as she thought, she mumbled reluctantly, “It's true... and I do not wish to go back on my word, but....” She sighed, rolling her head around before focusing again on Fenris, “I do not trust you enough to allow you to see him. Join the Fog Warriors in battle and we will look for your master in the jungle. Allow us to teach you the Qun. Only when I am certain you truly wish to convert will I let you see him.”

“But... What if I don't want to convert?” Fenris asked hesitantly, not sure if he would like the answer. Rasera offered him a pitiful glance, then shrugged her shoulders and looked away.

“I will not go back on my word... but if you do not convert, I would rather show you the body once they dispose of the Saarebas.”

Heart racing, Fenris asked nervously, “How long until then?”

Another odd look, but Rasera answered as honestly as she could, “The last time the Fog Warriors had a hostage, they killed him after a fortnight. The time before then, they kept their hostage for a whole season. They are patient; they will not kill him until they get the information they desire. That being said... I cannot give you a reasonable estimate. It depends on his will alone.”

Fenris sighed, but he nodded anyways, muttering softly, “If it is my master, it will take a while. He is stubborn.”

Rasera laughed, finding amusement in Fenris' sour expression, and she patted his shoulder once more before saying, “Then that gives me time to convert you, doesn't it? Come, let's speak to _Karasten_. He will be happy you are joining the Fog Warriors, even if it is for a short while.”

Fenris allowed Rasera to lead him away from the interrogation hut, through the town, and straight to Karasten, who ended up being the very same Warrior who had helped Fenris by giving him his knife. Karasten, no longer painted white, was a surprisingly dark-skinned human with jet black hair. His eyes were mud brown and serious, not even a hint of a smile in them as he came to greet Rasera and the slave. He looked over Fenris for a long moment as Rasera explained their agreement, that Fenris would stay and help them fight so long as she and other Fog Warriors aided him in searching for his master, a Tevinter Saarebas.

As soon as she stopped speaking, Karasten met her gaze and nodded once, grunting a few words in the same language the Qunari spoke, then turned and climbed back into his tree.

“He is ecstatic.” Rasera filled Fenris in with a kind smile, “I think he may have a task for you soon, in fact.”

Fenris followed her as she slowly walked away, a frown on his face, and he asked her, “He is a human, isn't he? How does he know Qunari?”

Rasera snorted, and offered, “It's Qunlat, Basalit-an. Qunari are the people. Qunlat is the language. And he, like all Fog Warriors here, are native to Seheron. Seheron used to be ruled by the Qun. Karasten is technically Tal-Vashoth, just like the rest of us here.”

Fenris hummed, interested already in the workings of the Fog Warriors and the Qun. He hoped Anders could hold on in that hut. He really did want to learn more about this place...

But, Fenris reminded himself as they drew close to the healing ward, even if this place were nice, Fenris would have to leave it eventually to return Anders home. He would not allow himself to convert, not truly. He would merely play the part, convince Rasera that he was indeed taken by her beliefs, and he would rescue Anders the moment she allowed him in.

When they entered the healing ward, Rasera called Fenris over and had him help her tend to the others. Fenris was shocked. He had never been trained to heal, even if it was without magic, but she was patient with him, showing him how to wrap bandages, how to clean wounds, and what salves did what and when to apply them.

Within that first day, Fenris felt his head throbbing with all the information Rasera crammed in there. After night fell and the last patient was put to bed, Rasera urged Fenris to take his spot on the bedding he rested in for the week. As he got comfortable, Rasera sat beside him, a tired but kind smile on her face.

“You are a good healer,” She said softly, her voice a whisper as usual, “Thank you for your assistance.”

“Why did you ask for my help?” Fenris asked in return, tucking an arm behind his head so he could look at her. “You must know I have never so much as looked at another's wound, much less tended to one.”

Rasera laughed, a light, breathy sound under her breath, and she admitted happily, “I figured. That is why I showed you. The Qun believes everyone is born with a purpose. To lead an army, to sail a ship, even to bake. It is different for each and every person, no matter who the parents are, no matter what the circumstances might be. You are obviously a warrior, but it is important that you are knowledgeable about all the options available to you. Even though fighting and bloodshed is what you know best, it may not be what is best for you.”

Fenris hummed, rolling onto his side, and he asked, “So you plan to use this month to teach me things?”

“I plan to understand your place in the world, Basalit-an.” She corrected, raising a brow, “Only then will I know how best to approach you.”

Fenris hummed softly, looking up at the sky, the stars. She joined him in his gazing, that smile still on her lips.

“Have you been a Qunari before being a Tal-Vashoth?” Fenris asked quietly, keeping his eyes on the stars, though he could feel hers on his face.

She remained silent for a moment. Perhaps he had said it wrong, perhaps he unintentionally offended her, but at last, she sighed and answered, “Yes. I used to be Qunari, long before today. I was _Tamassran._ I was in charge of guiding the little ones as they grew, of interrogating those who were captured or converting, and to decide each member's fate once they reached the age. I... was a teacher, of sorts.”

“Then how did a Tamassran become a healer? If the Qun believes it is important to fulfill one's role in life, why not continue on teaching?” Fenris asked, his brows furrowed. Rasera hummed, thinking about the question quietly, then tilted her head towards him.

“When I became Tal-Vashoth and came to the Fog Warriors, they were in desperate need of a healer. Since I am Tamassran, I knew at least the basics of a great many things, healing included. Though my place in the world is as a Tamassran, it is not what I needed to be at this time.” She looked at Fenris, then, and said, “Just like you. You are a warrior right now, because that is what you need to be. But if I discover your true purpose is to knit and sew, that does not mean you must give up the blade. It merely means that is what you were born to do to make you happy and to greatly benefit the world.”

“But wouldn't it be better to do what I am meant to do?” Fenris pressed, frowning up at the woman.

Smiling now, Rasera looked down at him, then reached out and pulled the thin sheet over his shoulders as well, tucking him in sweetly, “You ask a great many questions, Basalit-an. It is good. Perhaps you will be _Ben-Hassrath_. It is not far from warrior.” She laughed through her nose, an airy sound, then stood, “Sleep now, _Imekari._ I will have much more to teach you for as long as you stay.”

She walked away from him slowly, and Fenris watched her back as she went. She had her own quarters in the healing ward, a hut set on the floor instead of in the trees, so she had quick access to her patients. Fenris didn't close his eyes until he ensured her safe delivery into the hut, the cloth flap fluttering as it settled back into place in the doorway.

Fenris rolled onto his back again, setting his hand on his stomach and staring up at the stars. Danarius should have made it back to Tevinter by now. Fenris wondered if he was going to head back immediately or not. He was really upset with Fenris' inaction... perhaps he thought both of them dead by now.

Fenris shifted minutely where he lay, a scowl tugging at his lips. No, he knew he was within arms reach of Anders. He just had to convince Rasera and the rest of the Fog Warriors of his conversion. Then he could rescue his master. He just had to make sure he didn't lose himself along the way...

Rasera turned out to be a very determined teacher. Right when Fenris awoke, she had him assist her with her patients, then immediately dragged him off to the village, speaking with the locals in Qunlat as they passed, seemingly greeting them and asking about their days. Most of them seemed to wave her off with a smile, a shake of their head, and a wave, but Rasera continued on anyways. When they finally found someone who paused before they nodded thoughtfully, Rasera grinned wide and turned to Fenris.

“How would you like to learn how to fish?”

It was a rhetorical question, for she dragged him along with the fisherman anyways, marching straight to the small boat he had. When the fisherman got in, Rasera pushed Fenris forward with a smile, and the elf panicked.

“You are not coming?” He asked quickly, grabbing onto her wrist with a tight grasp, but Rasera managed to twist his fingers off of her.

“I am much too large for a boat this size.” She replied with a smile, “Do not worry, _Kaaras_ will tell you what to do.”

“But I do not—I cannot speak Qunlat!” Fenris gasped, but Rasera was already untying them and kicking them away from the dock, making the boat rock dangerously. The elf clutched at the sight of the boat, desperate not to be sent over, and his head jolted around when Kaaras began to laugh at him, holding himself steady with his legs pressed to either side of the boat, an oar in one hand and a large, wrapped up net in the other.

Fenris slowly lowered himself on the bench opposite of Kaaras, his heart pounding, and he merely felt himself grow paler when Kaaras began to prattle off at him in Qunlat, making broad but vague gestures with his hands. Fenris shook his head when Kaaras paused, but the fisherman only laughed again and spoke more words, though a fraction slower this time.

Fenris watched him closely now, focusing where his hands gestured to, deciphered what he was mimicking, and finally his brows rose and he pointed at the net. Kaaras nodded, repeating a few words, and Fenris murmured them back. He earned a satisfied grin from the fisherman, and together they began to unravel it, making sure there were no tangles or tears.

With Kaaras' patient and repetitive instruction, Fenris learned how the stone weights attached to the ends of the net would help it sink low enough to catch the fish. As they sailed around in the sea, the boat began to trail along slower and slower until Kaaras and Fenris began to pull the net back up, dragging with it all the fish that managed to get tangled within. It wasn't a lot, perhaps enough to fill a small basket, but Kaaras looked pleased nonetheless. They spilled the fish out by their feet, Fenris grimacing at the sensation of wet, slimy creatures slithering against his skin, but Kaaras kept him busy with work, and they threw the net out again.

This time, instead of sailing about, however, Kaaras handed Fenris a spear and gestured to the water, saying more words that Fenris barely understood. The elf looked down into the water, could see the fish fluttering by just below their ship, and got the gist. With a powerful swing, Fenris attempted to spear one of the creatures. The tip of the spear sunk into the water, right through the image of the fish... then continued through, hitting only an illusion. Fenris yelped as he was brought forward with the strength of his own swing, collapsing against the edge of the boat and nearly dropping the spear into the ocean.

Beside him, Kaaras exploded in laughter. Fenris felt his face burn from his jaw to his ears to his brows, and he clenched his jaw tightly before he turned his head away, completely embarrassed at being laughed at. Kaaras, still fighting back his mirth, gestured for Fenris to hand the spear over, muttering words in a soothing tone. The elf, irritated and ashamed, jutted the spear towards the man and almost dropped it at his feet, but Kaaras took it with a smile and gestured for Fenris to watch.

The elf lifted his gaze, though he kept his head tucked down, and he watched as Kaaras set a foot on the edge of the boat, leaning over it to peer into the water. The whole vessel lurched to the side from the weight, and Fenris clutched to whatever grip his hands could find, fingers digging into the worn wood in a panic. Kaaras stayed focus on the task at hand, unperturbed by the rocking of the boat as he surveyed the fish fluttering by like streaks of silver and white, rippling the surface of the water.

Kaaras made a noise, catching Fenris' attention. Kaaras pointed at the water, at a fish in particular, and Fenris knew to keep his eyes on it. Kaaras watched the fish for a few moments longer, preparing the spear for the final plunge. Then, when the fish curled around and swam back towards the boat, Kaaras thrust the spear into the water silently, and Fenris lurched forward with raised brows. From the top, it looked as if Kaaras had completely missed his mark. Fenris' lips curled back in a grin, totally prepared to taunt the man, but when Kaaras pulled the spear out, the fish came with it, bursting from the ocean with a jolt, trying to wiggle its way off the blade.

Fenris' jaw fell open, and the moment Kaaras wedged the bleeding fish off the blade, Fenris took the spear from him and settled at the edge of the boat, determined to catch one, too.

By the time they made it back to the docks, the boat was full of dead fish, but Fenris couldn't claim any of them as his own. He pouted all the while Kaaras showed him how to tie the boat down so it wouldn't float away, then had Fenris help him carry the fish from the boat and to what looked like a crude smoke hut. They sat near the front, Kaaras demonstrating how to cut and clean the fish, preparing them to be cooked or dried.

As they sat cross-legged across from each other with the fish bones piled to one side and the edibles to another, Fenris sulked in his own embarrassment. He had helped Kaaras catch with a net, but any old fool could do that. Kaaras had given him his spear, had shown him how to fish, but Fenris had still failed him. If it had been Danarius, Fenris would have been punished. In fact, he was surprised Kaaras seemed so carefree about it.

 _“_ Basalit-an,” Kaaras called out, and Fenris snorted at the title.

Shaking his head, Fenris gestured to himself and corrected him with a strict, “I'm bas. There's no way I'm worthy after my embarrassing display.”

Kaaras tilted his head, frowning a little. Speaking in a stronger tone, Kaaras insisted, “Basalit-an,” and he thrust a finger hard towards Fenris. Another smile appeared as Fenris squinted at him warily, and Kaaras lifted the fish he had just finished gutting and scaling between them. The elf glanced between the fish and Kaaras, moved to shrug, then immediately yelped when Kaaras bit straight into the fish's flesh, ripping into the meat, then spitting out the larger bones as he chewed.

He gestured for Fenris to do the same, a delighted if not deranged smirk on his face, and the elf thought at first to refuse. He was in the middle of shaking his head and holding up a warding hand when he considered it. Perhaps this would be his punishment, he realized. The Fog Warriors didn't seem like the violent type, but that didn't mean they weren't into humiliation. Gritting his teeth, Fenris resigned himself to his fate and picked up a fish.

He cleaned and gutted it quickly, then held it before himself in both hands, looking down at the dead animal with a clenching stomach. Kaaras was watching him expectantly, polishing off his own fish with an enraptured look on his face. Fenris sucked in a solidifying breath, closed his eyes for a moment, thought about perhaps plugging his nose, but knew he wouldn't. Before he could talk himself out of it, Fenris bit into the flesh and tore away a chunk of fish meat.

Kaaras didn't laugh immediately. He sat and waited and watched as Fenris chewed the gooey meat. The elf hesitated, on the fence on suffering his punishment and actually enjoying the taste, and after a few pauses to pick out the bones he missed, Fenris decided it wasn't actually that bad.

Looking at Kaaras in confusion, the man gave a light chuckle and nodded, his brows raised high on his head, then continued to gut and clean. Fenris finished his snack—a gift, now that he realized it, despite the poor job he had done—and proceeded to clean as well.

When Fenris returned to the healing ward, it wasn't until the sun had been down for hours. Rasera gave him a curious look, but Fenris flopped down on his bed, muttering a tired 'good night' and went straight to sleep.

Thinking she would catch him in the morning to talk about his experience, Rasera let him sleep. She finished tending to her patients before she turned in herself. When the sun woke her, she sat up, stretched, then looked to Fenris' bed to see the elf already gone.

She spied his back as he hurried towards the village and she grinned, already guessing where he was headed to. She would catch him one of these days and they would discuss fishing. Rasera didn't think it was his true purpose, but she wouldn't keep him from learning it regardless. Every warrior should know how to hunt for themselves.

It wasn't until the end of the third night that Fenris came back early with a string of gutted and cleaned fish and a victorious grin on his face. As he and Rasera cooked them for a good meal between themselves and the patients, Fenris explained to her how he had caught every single one of these fish on his own with the spear, how Kaaras was so proud of him, and how proud he was of himself. Rasera listened eagerly, a happy little smile on her own face. By the time they had finished their meal and were getting ready to sleep, Rasera told Fenris to expect a new job in the morning. The elf responded with a touch of sorrow, perhaps really enjoying the sea and all it offered him, but in the end, he was eager to learn more.

After getting a grasp on fishing, Rasera thought it smart to have him learn the quirks of land-prey, and she had him join the hunting troops for a few days. He came back quicker with two fat nugs and a fowl, and he showed her just how he learned to clean them and cut the meat.

Then came sewing and knitting, which Fenris fought with every day. He came back nightly with new pricks and cuts and a heated scowl on his lips. Rasera knew this wasn't going to be the choice for him, but she was resilient in making him learn, not wanting him to give up on anything just because it was troublesome at first.

He spent nearly a whole week with the ladies, learning how to sew clothes together and knit blankets and scarves and even gloves. When he finally came back victorious, bearing a patched pair of his own leggings to Rasera, the Tal-Vashoth decided it was good enough. She offered to have him change jobs, but he immediately refused, explaining that the women would teach him how to knit gloves next, and he wasn't going to bypass that opportunity.

With pride, Rasera walked through the town to watch Fenris battle with the gloves. He sat away from the women, cross-legged on the ground with the thick metal needles in his hands as he fought with the druffalo yarn. He had a tongue caught between his teeth and his eyes zeroed in on his motions, completely focused on the work in his hands. Rasera thought about greeting him, granting him a much-needed break for a moment of socialization, but ultimately decided against it. He would never forgive her if she delayed his work unnecessarily.

After another few days, Fenris returned with gloves large enough for Rasera, and she wore them gratefully. He absolutely glowed when he saw her the next day with them on, and it took her all her will-power to keep from thinking how closely he resembled her students under the Qun.

“What is next?” Fenris asked Rasera as they walked into town, a thrilled expression on his face.

“I was thinking farming and tending to the animals,” Rasera answered happily, planning to get the domestic stuff out of the way—something she was certain wouldn't be Fenris' favorite, just like the sewing hadn't been.

When she saw the frown on the elf's face, she thought herself right at first, but was startled when Fenris muttered, “I... already know how to do that.”

Looking at him in surprise, Rasera considered the elf before asking, “Was this something your master made you do back in the Imperium?”

“No. Yes? No.” Fenris argued with himself, looking almost... pained. “I... not my current master... I think? I.... I can't recall...” Fenris stopped walking, staring down at his feet in horror, his eyes flickering back and forth blindly as he attempted to remember. Rasera stopped as well, watching him silently, and she only stepped in when Fenris began to breathe heavily.

“Basalit-an...” She called, taking a step towards him, but Fenris raised his arms, warding her away.

“Stop... Wait...” He gasped, shaking his head, “No... I was... I was born to serve my master... There was nothing for me before...” He panted, turning away from Rasera as he suffered, “My first memory is of pain and his touch... There is _nothing_ for me before that!”

Rasera frowned deeply, and asked in a gentle but strong voice, “What are you trying to convince yourself of?”

Fenris paused, his breath catching in his throat, as if he had only just remembered Rasera was there with him. Slowly, his hands lowered to his tunic, gripping the cloth tightly, and he stared blankly into the Void.

“I... remember nothing... of my life before my master,” He told her, his voice hushed, more-so than usual. “I thought it a gift at first... so I would not be distracted by things that no longer mattered... So I would be devoted to him and only him... but...”

“But he is not your life anymore.” Rasera told him, her tone hard now, and Fenris' shoulders sagged, “Under the Qun, you are your own elf. No one commands you to do anything but what you are born to do. No one has ever been born to serve another.”

“I know.” Fenris sighed, slowly unwinding from his panic, “You are all free...”

Rasera made a face, then slowly corrected him with a gentle, “No... No one is truly free, Basalit-an. But we are equals. And that is what is important.” She held up her hand, a gesture for him to accept or refuse, and Fenris regarded her for only a moment before he stepped towards her. She went to grip his shoulder and give it a comforting squeeze, but instead of him standing there for her to touch, he pressed his small form against hers, tucking his forehead against her bicep and leaving his arms hanging loosely at his sides.

Rasera paused, surprised by the show of intimacy—purely familial, but intimate nonetheless. She slowly settled her hand on the center of his back, right between his sharp shoulder blades, and she gave him a few slow rubs.

“You remind me of someone I do not know.” Fenris told her, his voice muffled against her skin, but she tilted her ear towards him regardless, “Why... why would he take my memories?”

“To break you.” Rasera answered for him, her words leaving no room for argument, “Your master—he is Saarebas?”

Fenris frowned against her skin, closing his eyes, and he nodded once.

“Saarebas in Qunlat is Mage in Trade. Do you know what else it could mean?” She asked. Fenris shook his head no, and Rasera gently moved her hand from his back to the top of his head, brushing her thick fingers through his hair, “It means 'dangerous one.' They are cursed with their power, Basalit-an. They are a danger to every society, and in the Imperium, they reign because of it. Just like Ashkaari Koslun wrote, just because one stings does not mean the rest will not. They cannot be allowed equality, for they will abuse it. In the Imperium, they have usurped the common people, and now they allow their curse and the demons that whisper in their ears to guide them. Why do you think the Imperium is the only country that approves of slavery?”

Fenris sniffed, certain what she wanted him to say, but unable to bring himself to it. Instead, he asked wetly, “Does everyone outside of the Imperium believe this?”

Rasera hummed comfortingly, settling her hand at the nape of his neck and squeezing, “Yes. Though only the Qunari and Tal-Vashoth handle their Saarebas properly. The bas all put their Saarebas in places they call Circles. Giant towers that cage them, filled with _Basvaarad,_ that allow the demons to learn and grow their curse. It is dangerous, but it has worked thus far. No common man would want one of them walking around their streets unchained.”

Fenris sighed, feeling the tears swell in the corners of his eyes, but he struggled to keep them from falling. Instead, he said, “But Master was... so kind...”

Rasera clicked her tongue, holding the elf closer, and she whispered, “They may all seem so at first... but they are all after the same thing. Nothing sates a Saarebas other than power and control. You cannot tell me that this master of yours has never harmed you, can you?”

Fenris winced, already thinking back to the night after their first battle, then further back, to when Anders had first struck him for trying to protect him. He didn't want to confirm it, but it was true. Anders encouraged Fenris to be his friend, and yet when he tried to be, he would be hurt. It was confusing, leaving the elf to scramble to make his master happy.

“It isn't fair...” Fenris decided, his sorrow turning to a mute anger, “Why must I suffer?”

“You do not have to, Basalit-an.” Rasera reassured him, pushing him back with a strong hand, “Not anymore.”

They met eyes, Fenris' wet with emotion and Rasera's firm but hopeful. The elf struggled with this decision, the weight of it on his shoulders. He had seen what Rasera had to offer... and he craved it with a shocking intensity.

Closing his eyes, breaking that link between them, Fenris clenched his jaw and reminded himself that he had a task to fulfill. He needed to find Anders and bring him home. The Qun was beautiful and offered him protection and freedom and equality, but he could not turn his back on his masters. Danarius would surely hunt him down. Anders would die at the hands of the Fog Warriors if he accepted them. But was that so bad?

Maybe... maybe he could fulfill his task and still be accepted... maybe he could convince the Fog Warriors to release Anders to his father. Maybe they would listen to him, not as an injured elf they saved, but as an equal. Just like Rasera claimed.

Sucking in a shaking breath, Fenris said in a scared, small voice, “I... I want to change. I want to live under the Qun. Please.” He looked up at her, desperate to be allowed to, scared that she'll turn him away.

But no. Rasera smiled at him, a bright, glimmering thing, and her eyes glittered with happy tears as she looked upon this elf, this saved soul. Brushing his hair back once more, she nodded, and said, “Then welcome, Viddathari.” She brushed her thumb against his cheek, pride swelling warm in her chest, “It is time to teach you the Qun.”

Learning the Qun and all of its lessons would be hard, Fenris came to realize. Within the first week under Rasera's lessons, he had heard so many stories and had been taught so many beliefs that he wasn't sure if he would remember it all. Rasera was patient with him as always, but she was stern and unmoving. If Fenris had an opinion on an ideal, she would shut him down in moments with another tale, anecdote, or reference. He came to realize that the Qun, while welcoming and equal, was stubborn and not prone to change. Fenris was fine with it. He would have to be in order to be free.

The week after, Rasera urged Fenris to join the Fog Warriors in their chores once again. She insisted he partake in farming and animal husbandry just to be certain this wasn't his true purpose, and when he did, he found he didn't know quite the same things as the Fog Warriors did. While Fenris learned how to care for druffalos, rams, and horses, the Fog Warriors kept wolves, Fennecs, and these giant, leathery, horned creatures they called Gurns. They were big and heavy like druffalos, the females gave good milk, but they were far angrier. Two of them charged at Fenris while he tried to feed them, and he had to bolt for the fence of their pen for safety, much to the amusement of the others.

And with farming, Fenris realized they weren't raising crop like most did in Tevinter. Rather, they were harvesting from the nature around them, occasionally pruning the trees or fertilizing the ground with fish carcasses and Gurn leavings. They showed Fenris how to cut away pineapples from bushes, how to identify ripe clusters of bananas and cut them into manageable bunches. They showed him how to climb trees and harvest coconuts, and they showed him how to open up the husks to get to the water and the meat in the center.

Fenris enjoyed every last moment of it, especially the tree climbing. He, like other elves with the Fog Warriors, was lean and nimble enough to make it up the tall structures in record time, often racing with one another to see who could harvest the most. He spent a much longer time doing this than he had his previous jobs.

In fact, he had spent so much time doing this work that the Qunari sighting happened while he was up in the thick leaves of a coconut tree. He had just snapped off a heavy fruit with his hands when he heard the heavy footfalls coming through the jungle. Fenris shared a look with his harvesting companion, a slight human man, and they both crawled higher into their respective trees, Fenris struggling with the coconut pressed to his chest.

With the both of them hidden in the thick green leaves, they watched silently as a trio of Qunari warriors crept through the jungle. They were far too close to the Fog Warriors' encampment for comfort, but much too far away for either Fenris or the human to comfortably leave one another to get help.

The human suddenly let out a call, something mimicking a bird, and Fenris looked his way. They made eye contact through the leaves, the human gesturing haltingly towards the enemy, but Fenris had no idea what he was trying to say. Shaking his head in confusion, Fenris squinted at him. The human halted his movements, paused, then stealthily unsheathed the long, curved blade he carried that they used to cut open the fruit.

Fenris' eyes widened and he shook his head again, though this time out of refusal. There was no way they would be able to take three Qunari with only two of them, especially since Fenris didn't even have a longsword to fight with. He's never fought with one of these curved blades...

The human merely nodded his head, trying to encourage Fenris to take up arms against the enemy. Fenris felt his heart began to race. There was no way they'd both survive. Even if they were lucky, they would probably only take down one or two of them before they were stomped on.

But they really were too close for comfort. Any further in and they might stumble upon the encampment, and who knows what might happen from there. Licking his lips, tasting the salty tang of his own sweat, Fenris unsheathed his own knife with one hand, the other still clutching the coconut.

With a thought, Fenris looked at the fruit in his hands. They were heavy, but not unbearably so. He and the human were only about eight feet up, hidden more by the thick leaves than their height, but if Fenris lobbed it hard enough...

The human let out another bird call, and Fenris held up a hand to signal him to wait. The Qunari crept closer, their vibrant eyes surveying the area around them, and Fenris crawled just a little bit higher. Swinging the knife around, he bit the blade between his teeth, then held up the fruit with both hands, high above his head. The human let out one last bird call, probably trying to get his attention, maybe asking him to stop, but the elf was sure this would work.

Sucking in a heavy breath between bared teeth, Fenris tightened his grip on the coconut, waited for them to take just a few steps closer, then expertly threw it down, trying to summon as much strength behind the toss as he could without throwing himself off balance and out of the tree.

The branches swayed heavily, the coconut sped through the air, and then the human jumped from his tree, blade at the ready. Just as he hit the ground, the coconut hit its target, bouncing right off the leading Qunari's forehead and sending him crashing to the ground. The human followed through, slipping between the two startled beasts and digging his knife straight into the fallen member's throat, giving it a jerk and a twist until blood swelled from him.

The Qunari recovered quickly, and one of them grabbed the human, eliciting a scream from the slight man. Fenris decided it was his turn to make an appearance and he leapt down as well, his knees and calves shouting with pain when he connected to the ground.

Less gracefully, Fenris charged at the beast holding his companion, jumping onto his back and digging the knife in wherever he could fit it. The human proceeded to kick and bite until the Qunari let him go, and he ran for the trees, climbing up in expertly to hide. Fenris, meanwhile, jerked the knife from the Qunari's back just in time for his thick hand to swing backwards, grabbing Fenris by a handful of hair and throwing him over his shoulder and onto the ground.

Fenris cried out in pain, and a heavy foot landing on his torso kept him from rolling up into a ball. Panting heavily, Fenris looked up at the two beasts, one heavily bleeding and the other outraged. He spat at one of them, and the foot pressed harder against his ribs. Keening in pain, Fenris scrambled for his knife and moved to stab into the meat of the beast's leg, but the bleeding Qunari knelt and held down his arms, rendering him immobile.

Fenris cursed in the back of his throat. He knew they wouldn't win this. With any luck, the human would have fled back to camp, perhaps to get help or to warn his brethren of the incoming danger. With any luck, the human wouldn't be around any more.

Fenris squeezed his eyes shut after he saw the Qunari standing on him lift a spear, planning to end the elf's life before he could cause any trouble. He had been afraid to do this ever since the Fog Warriors found him. No, ever since Rasera told him what they thought of mages and their abilities. He was scared that, if seen, they would assume him a mage and would cut out his tongue and sew his mouth shut. He was scared he would not longer be equal in their eyes, perhaps hated, perhaps pitied, but most definitely ostracized from the beautiful life they created, never again allowed to partake in this sanctuary.

With any luck, the human was long gone and was never going to come back for Fenris.

With a roar, Fenris slipped halfway into the Fade. The spear sunk into the ground right at his stomach, but did no damage to the elf. The foot and hands fell through where they held him, and Fenris rolled out from under them before he got to his feet. The Qunari looked at his ghostly form in horror, one of them shouting the accursed title of “Saarebas!” before Fenris threw his arms into their chests, finding their vital organ and stepping back into the Waking World.

With a tight grip and all the strength he could gather, Fenris pierced his fingers into their hearts and tore it out of place in their chests. The life left their eyes and they began to fall backwards, threatening to pull Fenris with him by the arms had he not flickered into the Fade and back to remove them.

He stood there, over their bodies, panting. His arms were bloody, bits of heart and flesh clinging to his nails where he dragged them into the Fade, and his body trembled in residual pain. He slumped to his knees in the middle of the three corpses, heart still pounding from the adrenaline, and he closed his eyes to center himself. What would the human think if he returned to camp like this? Maybe he could hide the bodies and convince them Fenris had gotten away with bruised ribs and a sore pride. It would be the best cover he could think of, so with a sniff, Fenris grabbed his fallen blade and tucked it back into the sheath at his hip.

Working himself back to his feet, Fenris began to turn to find somewhere to hide the bodies when he came face to face with Karasten, Rasera, and a few other Warriors, all painted head to toe in white. They all looked upon Fenris uncomfortably, shock and distrust in their eyes, but Karasten remained firm. Rasera, on the other hand, looked downright betrayed.

“Viddathari...” She whispered, her voice broken and her eyes wet, disbelieving, “But you are... Saarebas...”

“No...” Fenris pleaded, his arms and legs shaking now, his fear coming true. “It's not what you think...”

Rasera's lips curled back in a sneer, and she opened her mouth to say more, accuse him further, but fell silent when Karasten held up a stern hand. The others behind him fell quiet as well, their whispering cutting off brutally, but their eyes were still trained on Fenris, burning into him, filling him with shame. The elf took a step back when Karasten stepped forward, but forced himself to still when Karasten grunted at him.

The human slowly approached, looking over Fenris with a critical eye, his expression never changing from the ever present scowl on his lips, his eyes as hard as steel. Fenris trembled harder, ducking his head and squeezing his eyes shut.

After doing a full two circles around him, Karasten stopped before him and, coldly, he commanded in Qunlat, “ _Do it again.”_

Shaking and tearing up, Fenris whispered back in poor Qunlat, “ _It hurts.”_

Karasten didn't respond. He merely crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Fenris, waiting. The elf whimpered pitifully, closed his eyes tighter, and figured this was what he would be condemned to. He could only hope that they made his death quick.

Keeping his eyes shut, Fenris growled and activated his power, his entire body sparkling in the glow of his lyrium, his form turning translucent as he took a step into the Fade. Karasten watched, his expression unchanging, but behind him, Rasera and the others gasped in shock. Rasera began muttering a Canto from the Qun, something she did for comfort, while the other Fog Warriors resumed their incessant whispering.

Karasten took a few steps closer to Fenris, despite Rasera's shout for him to stay away, and he experimentally passed a hand through his shape, his brows raising minutely when he felt nothing.

When Karasten stepped back, Fenris allowed his body to become corporeal. With a grunt, Fenris dropped to his knees, doubling over and splaying his hands out before him, instinct from his days as a slave.

“Please,” He begged, voice wet with terror, not at all ready to give any of this up, “Do not send me away. I will do anything you ask of me. I will be your slave until the day I perish. Please, please don't make me leave this place...”

“Viddathari...” Rasera breathed, her voice soft and mournful, but she made no other move, made no other effort to try and save him. He was beyond saving now. He had been turned into this weapon for his mage masters, for the Saarebas, and now he was to be killed because of it. It wasn't fair... It wasn't fair!

“ _Enough,_ ” Karasten sighed, waving a hand to silence the elf bowing before him and the Warriors behind him, “ _We will speak of this in the village. It is not safe out here. Viddathari, rise and join us.”_

Fenris bowed lower, pressing his forehead to the dirt, and he whispered a breathy, “Thank you... Thank you...” Before he stood. His body was slouched, his hands and knees dirty with blood and grime, and on unsteady feet, he followed Karasten and the rest of the Warriors back to the village.

Upon arrival, the villagers greeted their Warriors with a hint of trepidation. They, of course, had heard of the Qunari wandering near the village, and seeing their troops come back without a hint of battle made them wary. As they looked upon Fenris, however, drenched and battered as he was, they began to put their work aside and follow, obviously knowing something was going on.

Karasten lead them to the center of the village, standing on the trunk of a fallen tree in order to gain height. The townspeople surrounded him, leaving a meter wide space between them and the trunk, and as one, they pushed Fenris between them. Fenris looked up at Karasten, his heart racing, and again he fell to his knees.

“ _Viddathari,_ ” Karasten called, his voice unusually loud in the hush of the village, “ _Has been accused of being Saarebas.”_

The villagers around them gasped, a few shouted, and others scurried away from the center of the tree stump. Karasten watched them all, and when they were as settled as could be, he continued.

_“He has been seen manipulating these markings upon his skin, stepping into the Fade, and murdering the enemy by hand. He has performed miracles only those cursed by the Fade were known to. Viddathari is no normal elf.”_

Fenris cringed and ducked his head, shouts from the people around him hurting more than if they had started pelting him with rocks. It felt like his world was crumbling, it felt like he was going to fall through Thedas and be swallowed up by the Void. He wished for it more than he thought one should be.

He could feel the anger in the crowd surging behind him. He wondered if Rasera was a part of them, calling for his head, demanding he hang, bearing a knife to cut his tongue out with. Could they not see the truth? Could they not see that it wasn't him?

This was what he deserved for being selfish, for turning his back on his masters, for refusing to fulfill Danarius' task. He had found Anders, tucked in the bowels of this Fog Warrior village, and he still lingered, too awed to leave them. He did not belong here. He belonged at the feet of Magisters, back in Tevinter, waiting on them every moment of every day for the rest of their lives. He was a weapon, not a person. He was a thing, not a creature. He was filth, he was worthless, he was a failure, he was, he was, he was...

 _“He is_ not _Saarebas.”_ Karasten announced, and at that, Fenris' head jerked up, looking at this man like he had just handed him the world on a silver platter. He knew. He _saw_.

The villagers around them went quiet at this revelation, their confusion tangible. Karasten narrowed his eyes further, a sort of aggressiveness in his stance, a violent glint in his eyes...

No, not violent. Protective.

“ _Viddathari was enthralled by_ Tevinter _Saarebas_. _He was poisoned by their words, tainted by their touch. These markings upon his skin are his scars from enduring their evil. Viddathari is no Saarebas. He is an example. A living example of the terrors of those cursed by the Fade.”_

Putting a foot on the ledge of the stump, Karasten shouted, _“He has been brought to us because we have been lenient on those cursed individuals! We have allowed them to walk our land, to shed their blood, to stay in our huts as we torture and prod them for information! We will not stand their presence any longer!”_

Fenris frowned, his brows knitting together in confusion. He was almost certain he knew where this was going... but....

“No...” Fenris breathed, his heart sinking to the pit of his stomach, but Karasten didn't hear him.

 _“We must destroy them along with the Qunari invaders! We must show them that there is no room for their evil here! We will allow them to taint our lands no longer!”_ Karasten roared, and the people around them cheered in agreement, a few of them throwing their fists into the air.

“ _No longer will we hide silently in the shadows! We will fight until the last of us stands! For the_ Fog Warriors! _For_ Seheron!”

“ _For_ Seheron!” The villagers cried, and Karasten grinned menacingly before he turned his gaze to Fenris.

“ _Come, Viddathari! You have shown us the truth, and for that, we must thank you. Bare the honor on your chest and kill the first Saarebas with us!”_ Karasten urged, holding out a hand to Fenris who was still kneeling before him on the tree stump. The elf looked down at the offered hand, his eyes still wide with disbelief, then he turned his gaze back to Karasten, his happy expression, so different from the scowl he always wore. He had been waiting for this moment, this sign for them to leave their morals behind and pursue their enemy like the nugs and fennecs they hunted.

“No.” Fenris said once again, staring up at Karasten in confusion, in terrified shock. This was who this man was? This was what this village would be lead to?

Rasera said they weren't like the Qunari, said they wouldn't kill and murder and force others into their beliefs. But what Karasten was doing... it was the same thing, wasn't it?

His smile fell to a scowl, and then he was stepping down from the tree stump, kneeling in front of Fenris and putting a hand on his shoulder. _“Viddathari_ ,” He said, meeting Fenris' eyes sternly, _“You have been a great addition to our people. You are worth more than what the Saarebas have told you, and you aren't the only one in their grasp. So many more humans and elves are harmed by them daily. You can help us make a difference. You can help us rid the world of them. Work with us, Viddathari. The Fog Warriors can be your people, too.”_

It was a beautiful offer. A comforting thought, that he had a home with these men and women of Seheron. That he had a purpose beyond being told to carry things, fight people, and bend over on a bed. It would be all he ever dreamed of, to finally be an equal member of a society, to be listened to and respected and treated like a living thing...

But that was his master in that hut. He had vowed to bring him home. He had promised himself that he would, even if he would return to the Fog Warriors right after. He still needed to uphold that promise, still need to tie up his loose ends. He would never leave this life behind him if he still had Danarius waiting on him. The guilt and shame would force him back one day, if not the Magister himself. With a heavy heart, Fenris refused one more time.

“No. _I cannot kill the Saarebas. He... He is my master._ ” He told Karasten, his head drooping and his eyes squeezing shut. Karasten's grip on his shoulder tightened, his eyes grew hard, but he did not pull away.

“ _All the more reason for you to do the honors._ ” Karasten urged, pushing at Fenris until the elf was looking up at him again, forcing him to make and retain eye-contact. The elf shuddered, but remained resilient, and he shook his head.

Finally, Karasten's hand fell from his shoulder, disappointment in his eyes. As he stood up straight, Karasten whispered, “ _So be it.”_

“You can't kill him--” Fenris gasped, but Karasten began to walk away, headed towards the hut they kept him in, leaving Fenris scrambling after him, “Karasten! _Stop! You can't kill him!”_

 _“I will for my people! I need to protect them, Viddathari! Nothing will stop this!”_ He demanded, and Fenris ran to catch up to him, grabbing him by the arm for physically stop him and force him to face the elf.

 _“I need to return him home! If you kill him, you will bring all of Tevinter to Seheron for revenge!”_ Fenris warned, hoping to scare him out of this, to ward him away from this one act, “ _Let me get rid of him. Let me return him home. Then you can kill any who step on your lands!”_

But Karasten was a strong man, and he knocked Fenris' hand away before he jutted a threatening finger at him, shoving him in the chest as he barked out, _“I gave you the chance to end the Saarebas' life, and you refused. Now, you expect me to let him live and for what? The country that enslaved you, that enslaved your kind? The people who burned these markings into your skin and tainted your soul? If his death means more will come, then so be it! It will only make it easier to eradicate them in the end!”_

He turned towards the hut once again, but Fenris stopped him quicker, jerking him around, and with a snarl, he threatened him, _“I cannot let you kill that man.”_

With gritted teeth and a strained stare, Karasten leaned closer to Fenris and spat back out, _“I'd like to see you stop me.”_

Again, Karasten tore Fenris' arm off of his wrist. Again, Karasten turned and walked towards the hut in the distance, intent on ending Anders' life for his damned beliefs. Again, Fenris was faced with a choice: the Fog Warriors and their beautiful village, or the Tevinter Imperium and his beautiful master.

Fenris squeezed his eyes shut as Karasten walked further away, his heart pounding ruthlessly in his ears. He hated the decision before him. He hated that he had to choose. He hated how easy it was, in the end...

Karasten went still in a moment, and Fenris whispered an apology into his ear as he lowered his body to the ground, watching the last of his life fade from his surly blue eyes. Slowly, Fenris pulled his arm from Karasten's body, his blood now mingled with the Qunari's still left on his arms. When he turned and saw the villagers watching, their eyes wide and their mouths fallen open in horror, he knew it wasn't the end. When the Warriors charged forward with their swords drawn, Fenris knew he wouldn't hold back.

The Qunari were hard to fight because of their exoticism, because Fenris had never gone against one of them before. Humans, on the other hand, were what was he trained to kill. He may not have a weapon past the long knife he still held to open coconuts, but it helped him fell two Qunari, so it would help him fell a village of humans and elves.

He cut down body after body with a swing of his blade or an arm in the chest or head. He felt their organs crush under their fingertips and bathed in their blood as it sprayed from their throats. He absorbed their last screams, relished their gurgling moans, and was reinvigorated with each life he stole. The people stopped being recognized as living beings. Instead, they were shadows, figures and shapes that were attacking him, and he had to stop them. They were his training dummies back in Minrathous, made of straw and rope, and he tore into their skin and dug out their innards like it was hay. His lyrium flashed in time with his deadly steps, his feet digging into soft skin and jagged bone until no more rose, until no more fought.

Panting, he looked ahead and saw Rasera in the distance. She stood there, her eyes hard and distant, her body rigid. He tried to wipe the blood away from his eyes, but that only smeared more over his face.

“Rasera...” He groaned, but the Tal-Vashoth only stepped away from him, “Wait...”

“The Qunari were right in the end.” She said to him, her voice wavering, “There is no hope for those who turn their backs on the Qun...”

“No... Listen to me--”

“There is nothing to listen to, basra.” She snapped, and Fenris jolted back as if he had been hit. Rasera glowered at him, tears in the corners of her eyes, “I was wrong. There is no place for a monster like you. Not even in the Qun.”

“Rasera!” Fenris cried out, even as the Tal-Vashoth turned and vanished into the thick forest. Cursing under his breath, Fenris tried to chase after her, but he stumbled over the fallen corpses of those he called his brethren, his companions, and he felt something deep within him break.

“Rasera!” He called again, “Rasera! Rasera!” He was screaming now, a slurred jumble of her name as he begged her to come back. He laid among these bodies, among these men and women he murdered, and he felt himself dying.

“No.... no...” He begged, scrambling to the nearest one and trying to breathe life into them, plugging their nose with one hand as he attempted to resuscitate, then pushing at their chest, slapping their cheek, shaking them violently, trying to rouse any sort of response. “It's okay... It's going to be okay...” He begged, crawling to the next body, and though she was torn from naval to chest, he still tried to shake her awake, tried to drag her back to the Waking World.

“Rasera!” He screamed, burrowing his head against the dead woman's chest, “Please!”

There was no hope for any of them. None of them struggled with breath, none of them clung to the frayed edges of their life. There were none for Fenris to save.

Groaning, whimpering, sobbing, Fenris gave up on the impossible and instead made his way to the hut in the distance. The jungle was so quiet, but Fenris was deafened by the rush of blood and adrenaline in his system, haunted by the drying, sticky blood on his skin. He thought a few times he would vomit, and he stopped to lean against a tree as his stomach settled, but nothing came from him.

Even as the hut came into view, Fenris felt no relief. He would never feel relief again so long as this day was burned into his mind. He thought fleetingly that he could ask Anders or Danarius to wipe his memories again, tell them that he had been tainted by Seheron and the Qunari. Maybe they would pity him and grant his wish. Maybe this will all be just another nightmare in the future.

He threw the door open with more force than he thought he possessed, causing the prisoner inside to flinch in the darkness.

“Master,” Fenris called out, stumbling further in despite the whimpers coming from the man, “It is done. We can... We can return home, now.” His voice sounded distant, even in his own ears. His eyes squinted against the darkness, the blood making his eyelashes stick when they closed.

“Master, do not cower. It is only me.” Fenris tried to soothe the trembling man, and he squatted down and shuffled forward, nearing him inch by inch. His eyes began to adjust, as well. He could see hair much longer than what it had been before, twisted and gnarled from time and abuse, strawberry blond locks matted with blood. He could see the dull glint of brown eyes looking back at him, sunken into his skull, one almost swollen shut.

He wore a thick, heavy collar, one like the Saarebas Fenris had battled a month and a half ago. It was overlarge, hanging off of bony shoulders and chafing the freckled skin until it broke and bled and rotted. Fenris reached out for him, grasping his hand with his own, and gently pulled him towards the light.

“We can return to Tevinter now. Everything will be alright,” Fenris soothed, bringing him closer and closer to the door, watching with a broken heart as more of his abused master was revealed.

When the light shone on his face, the man squinted hard against it, and Fenris dropped his hand. As the man adjusted to the sun, Fenris jolted to his feet, standing ramrod straight with eyes wide and disbelieving. When their eyes connected again, Fenris stumbled back.

“Who are you?” Fenris all but demanded, looking over this man in disgust, his mind rambling with too many thoughts—his nose is too fat, his lips are too thin, his eyes are too muddy, this isn't him this isn't him this isn't-- “Wh-where is my master?”

The man coughed, cleared his throat, then spat up a phlegmy amalgamation of blood and spit. In a voice too deep, but hoarse from screaming and dehydration, the man replied, “I am the only one.”

“No.” Fenris refused, stumbling back a few more steps before his disbelief turned into rage. With vigor, Fenris marched forward, towering over this... this _stranger_ , and he shouted, “No! That's not—that can't be right! Who are you?!”

The man opened his mouth, barely got a single word out, and Fenris cut in and cried, “I do not care anymore! Where is my master?!”

“ _Please_ , I am all they kept!” The man begged, crawling further out of the door on his hands and knees, both caked with blood and his own waste. “You must take me back to Tevinter! I—I need to go back to Tevinter!”

“Tell me where my master is first!” Fenris demanded, squatting back down and grabbing the man by the Saarebas collar, yanking him upright and jostling him until he cried out in pain.

“I do not know! I—I don't—I don't even know who he was!” The man sobbed, though no tears fell from his painfully dry eyes.

“My Master!” Fenris shouted, emphasizing each word with a shake, as if that would knock the man's brain back in place, “Anders of House Arvanitis! Son of Danarius! Apprentice to the Archon himself! The Little Prince of Tevinter! My _Master!_ ” He shook him harder, getting more and more desperate. There was no way he could be dead. Not after all he went through. Not after all those lives he stole. He could not live with himself if he was gone. Danarius would never want him back. It was over, Fenris would die, Anders was gone, he was _gone_ \--

“Anders!” The man gasped, his eyes gone wide with recognition, “Anders! Anders! Yes! I know—I know what happened to him!”

“Tell me!” Fenris shouted, his heart leaping, _soaring_ in his chest, clinging to this last string of hope.

“Slavers took him! I—I think they were—but he was sold! Sold to a woman with a ship! Took him and only him! Said they were looking for an Anders!” He rambled, trembling in Fenris' grasp.

“A woman took him?” Fenris asked, confused, wondering who it could have been, “Hadriana? Tall skinny human, pale, black hair?”

“N-no... Tan. Very tan. Dark skin, dark brown hair. Gorgeous woman, thick in the right places. I... I didn't catch her name.” The man offered, and Fenris grit his teeth.

“And where were they going? Did she tell you this?” Fenris continued to push, his knuckles turning white with how tight he was holding onto this man. “Back to Tevinter?”

“I—I don't know! I thought they were slavers, but... but the woman didn't look Tevinter! Ship didn't look Tevinter either!” The man sobbed, staring wide-eyed at the elf, “Please... please, take me back... take me back home...”

Fenris shuddered, slowly, gently lowering the man back to the ground. As he curled in on himself, Fenris took in the sight of him. He was covered head to toe in blood and feces, the injuries he bore were infected, white-yellow pus oozing from them. He was thin, his lips were chapped. He probably hadn't had a full meal in all these months...

He would never survive a voyage back to Tevinter. Not even with the best healers on board. It would be torture...

“I... am grateful for the information,” Fenris whispered, putting a hand on the man's chin and forcing him to look up, look into his eyes. This was a man Fenris was supposed to be bowing to, a human, a free man. And here they were, with this man doubled over and collared as if he were the slave. Kneeling before Fenris as if he were his master. As if he could save him from this hell they called Seheron.

And, Fenris realized with a start, this was what the Qunari wanted, wasn't it? For the Saarebas to bow to them, for their magic to be used as a tool, a means to an end. This was what Rasera wanted for him, to control and be obeyed by these Fade-touched men. To be able to hold their life in his hand and end it if he so wanted. It was a heady sensation, to be Master to this human mage. But it was one that Fenris would never again experience. He would never let himself experience it.

But he can revel in it this one time. And with nothing left here for him, Fenris would grant this man at least one mercy.

“You and I both know you will never survive.” Fenris whispered, closing his eyes. The man trembled against his hand, his teeth clacking together.

“I have this long. Please... I have a wife and child... a little girl...” He begged, and Fenris grit his teeth.

“I can assure you of this: you are already dead to them.” Fenris spoke, meeting this man's eyes for the last time before he slipped his hand into the Fade and watched it sink into his skin-tight skull. The man's eyes fluttered and rolled back, then his entire body fell limp, slouching against Fenris' lap as if he were merely asleep.

Fenris phased his hand out from the man's skull, then gently stroked his hair as he stared into the hut. Sitting there with a dead man leaning against him, Fenris had to figure out what to do next.

Danarius wouldn't allow him to return without Anders. Anders had been sold to some woman with a ship and was being taken to Maker knows where. Fenris was stuck here on Seheron with a hidden village of corpses and with no means to leave. He would either have to wait until Danarius returned to collect him and bear the wrath, or swim back to Tevinter.

Fenris closed his eyes, his head throbbing and his brands stinging. His hands clutched the man's hair tightly in fear. He could die here. After all he had been offered, he could perish among his own victims or be dragged back to the Qun. Rasera might even hunt him down and exact her revenge. And all the while, Anders would be lost in some foreign land, enslaved and awaiting rescue. He would spend every night wondering when Fenris would reach him and finally take him home. He would grow old and die alone, with no family and no slave around him to pamper and love him, to cherish him for the great mage he is...

Fenris grit his teeth, felt them grind, and decided he couldn't let that happen. He needed to get to Anders, find out where in Thedas he was stolen away to, and drag him back home. He would return to Danarius be it in a month of in a year or in a decade's time with Anders, safe and sound, and he would be allowed to stay. He would rescue Anders from whatever slavery he fell into, from whatever trouble that might be following him, and he would kiss that damned mage over and over and demand he never leave his side again, because even though Fenris loved Danarius, only Anders loved _him_.

He would do all this, but first, he needed to figure out how to get off this island.

Pushing the body off of him carelessly, Fenris rose to his feet and began to pace. There was no ship here made for seafaring. The only boat they had was the fishing boat, and that was powered by oar. It would take months for Fenris to reach land, and that was if the waves were aiding him. There was no way he could survive that long out at sea.

Fenris yelped when a coconut fell from its tree, landing right where he had been standing. The elf sighed, scooped up the fruit, then sat down at the base of the tree. Tossing the fruit back and forth between his hands, Fenris continued to think.

He could fish. Kaaras taught him how to do so. He could sew and knit, so he wouldn't have to worry about his clothes being torn to pieces at sea. If he brought extra material, he could make himself a blanket for the night. Rasera taught him how to heal, so he wouldn't have to worry about getting injured and perishing alone in the boat. He was strong, so he could row himself back to land...

He didn't know where to go, though. He didn't know how to navigate. But he hardly had to map his way home, anyways. He just had to pick a direction and go and hope for the best...

But what about water? Would fish be enough to sustain him? How long would it really take?

Catching the coconut between both hands, Fenris sighed and looked at the fruit. It was covered in it's husk, still, a thick, brown coat that the women used to make into rope and yarn. He stood and carried the coconut back to the village, stepping over corpse after corpse until he found his knife hidden amongst them. Wiping the blood off with the edge of his tunic, Fenris proceeded to chop at the coconut, splitting it open enough so he could sip the water inside.

He paused, mouth full of liquid, and looked back at the fruit. How long did they last off of the tree? Fenris didn't know. But they had water, and it was more than fish, and if Fenris picked enough of them, then maybe... just maybe....

With a new sense of purpose, Fenris began to move. He worked throughout the night and most of the next day, gathering as many coconuts as he dared, a few bunches of bananas, and even a few pineapples before he started pilfering the Fog Warrior's encampment. Securing Kaaras' spear as his own, Fenris added that to his pile. He dug out cloth, rope, and yarn from a woman's chest, a few carving blades and a whetstone from another, and a bagful of pelts, both fennec and nug. He threw it all into the small fishing boat, grimacing when the whole vessel jerked about from the weight, but he was determined all the same.

It was night when he finally cut the rope and kicked the boat away from the docks. Using the oar to push him further out past the tide, Fenris turned his gaze to the horizon and the stars. He would sail away from Tevinter—there was no use going home with no Anders to return to. He would leave his home country behind and fulfill his final duty to Danarius.

He would survive however long the voyage took. If not for himself, then for Anders, for the Fog Warriors, for the Tevinter mage he put out of his misery.

For Rasera, to show her that even if he were only a monster, he still had a purpose, and he would fulfill it every waking day for the rest of his life. There may not have been anyone born to be a slave under the Qun, but Fenris believed people could be born to be a protector to another, and if that got him through the next three months at sea, living off of fish, coconut water, and delirium, then he will repeat it to himself every moment he could.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment or kudo! I love hearing the reader's thoughts on this fic.
> 
> Also, hope y'all are as tired of Fenris rn as I am cause we're bout to hop, skip, and jump to Anders' own boat ride real soon.


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